Tag Archives: musings

Goodbye Chicago summer

It is September 23rd, and that means that it is officially fall. Ironically, the high today in Chicago is supposed to be 89 degrees, sandwiched between two delightful days in the mid 70s–Someone Up There has a sense of humor.

While fall is probably my favorite season, it is also the doorway to a season you may be familiar with called “winter,” which in this city involves being cold. Real cold. I have conflicting emotions about this, since I would take being cold over being hot any day . . . on the other hand, having to wear leggings and long socks under my jeans and 3 layers of shirts not only means that it takes for-e-ver to get dressed in the mornings, but it also adds to the volume of my body. More specifically, the volume of my, um, derriere. I need a couple months to get comfortable with that–extra rolls are, after all, just a natural byproduct of the season. Right guys?

I seem to remember a huge winter coat I had to wear when I was young. It was a gigantic feathery concoction with a dark pink shell and a light pink lining. I hated this coat with a passion because, its girly color aside, I was convinced that it made me look fat. I called it the “fat rat coat.” I think I successfully turned my sisters against their poofy coats as well–it’s the power of the older sister. I like to call it the Girls Against Fat Rat Coats Revolution of 1996. Then I decided that coats weren’t necessary anyway, and a 5-year battle with my Mom ensued in which I tried to leave the house without appropriate outerwear during the colder seasons. “You need to wear your coat, you’ll be cold!” she urged as I scooted out the door. She may have been right, she may have been wrong–the records of history are curiously silent on this matter–but I certainly wasn’t wearing a large coat. I was a teenager, and I had my priorities straight: freeze, but look good while suffering. Then I moved away to college where no one told me what to put on, and I promptly caught the whooping cough.

I’ll let you reach your own conclusions about the folly or wisdom of my teenage decision making skills.

I took this picture on the 4th of July, which was the first super hot weekend of the summer, driving us to immediately purchase a window unit. I complained a lot about the heat here–and you know, what the heck, I’m actually glad to see it go. It’s going to mean a looooong break for the old sweat glands.

Here’s our neighborhood beach that I love so well, which has hosted many a lovely summer walk and will soon be covered in piles of frozen seaweed and sand . . .

Here’s the bright green grass at a park downtown . . .

And here’s a little foray into some flowers in spring, when life was just beginning to return to the city.

A few months’ pause in flower photography won’t kill me, I guess.

I’m excited about the brisk mornings to come and the impending holidays . . . but I also seem to remember that around October, the radiators in our apartment start clunking loudly all night long. They really like to get clunking while we’re trying to watch a movie. The choice is: give up and realize you will never hear the dialogue, or turn the loud heating machines off and freeze. It’s an interesting choice that is bound to produce many a philosophical midnight debate.

I attribute these loud noises to the radiator gnomes. When things start heating up, they wield their small hammers and hit the inside of the pipes repeatedly–that’s truly what it sounds like. A bunch of annoying little radiator miners just whacking their little hearts away. I can only hope they’re getting some fun out of it, or at least a good work out. Then there’s the large radiator troll, who wields a gigantic metal crowbar; when he gets to slamming that thing around, there is no peace to be found in a mile radius–guests be warned!

But let’s think positive here for a while. If I recall correctly, freezing can also produce some excellent cuddling. I’m envisioning a hot cup of spiced wine and a snuggle with my husband, and suddenly the winter is seeming like a force for good and not for evil.

Good bye Chicago summer! We loved you well. We will soon forget you ever existed as the harsh winds tear our coats to shreds and we fight each other tooth and nail for a position under the sole heating unit on the platform while waiting for the train. But I know that one day you will return with your music festivals, beach parties, church volleyball teams, and frivolities. Could somebody do me the kindness of reminding me in late January that there indeed are other seasons? Seasons that don’t require fifteen layers of clothes?

If I can’t take pictures of live plants, I can at least photograph these ferns of ice:

Yep, soon Jack Frost will be decorating our windows, just like he did last year.

What’s your favorite season? How are you feeling about the cold weather approaching? Any good recipes for spiced wine out there?

Cross training class: bane or boon?

Tonight I start my yoga class at Broadway Armory Park. I was enrolled in this class for 3 quarters of last year, and loved it. The City of Chicago pays for a good chunk of this program, so the fee to people like me isn’t too bad–$42 for about 10 weeks. It’s hosted in a large room with skylights and hardwood floors; all of last year I walked out of there once a week feeling like I was floating in a bubble of peace. Fitness and peace. My body felt stretchy, lithe, and wonderful. Never mind that I gained 13 pounds last year. It wasn’t yoga’s fault.

I have to say, I love feeling fit and healthy. I love exercises that tone my muscles, which is why Pilates and yoga are right up my alley. The stretching, the crunches, holding poses until your muscles are burning–I love that challenge. I’m even all for a little pumpin’ iron. Not that I’ve ever really done that. More like I lifted some weights for about 5 weeks one time and that was that. But what I don’t enjoy? Aerobic exercise. It’s my bane.

There are two main reasons for my loathing: I hate being hot and sweaty, and I hate being out of breath. That’s why the 2 attempts I have made in my life at becoming a jogger have crashed and burned faster than I could gasp “I . . . want . . . to . . . die!”

The first time I tried to conquer this loathing was with my friend Megan when I lived in Delaware. We jogged . . . twice. I think. Or maybe once together and once alone. And then we reverted to Pilates. What can I say? Pilates is like the exercise version of comfort food for me. And don’t think about that last sentence too hard or your brain may start smoking.

I tried to overcome my hatred of jogging again at the beginning of this summer. “Sweetie,” I said to my husband, “let’s go jogging today!” I sensed that the solution was to just jump right in, act positive, wear a cute outfit, and drag someone else along with me who could participate in my misery. So off we went. Keep in mind my husband has never really jogged (he’s more into the push-ups, sit-ups and such), so I was thinking we could have a nice little amble and be pathetic together. We hit the trail that goes along the lake. I ran for about 5 minutes. By then, I couldn’t even see my husband anymore–that’s how far ahead of me he was. I could sense death was near by the gasps racking my lungs. “He’s just left me here (gasp). . . to (gasp). . . to die!” I moaned, hoping for the listening mercies of any passerby. Unfortunately they were all in their little ipod worlds of jogging bliss, and didn’t seem to notice that I was about to go into cardiac arrest. I slowed it down to a walk and plodded forward for about 5 more minutes. I tried running again, kept it up for maybe 2 minutes, and then realized that my willpower had been reduced to the size of a pea, then squashed, then trampled on. Since I couldn’t bring myself to run, I kept walking.

At some point, off in the distance, I saw that my husband had turned around and was running back my way. The small dot became larger as he drew near, and before I knew it he had caught up with me. Hooray! That could only mean it was time to go home. I turned around, but by the time I was facing the other direction, he was out of sight again, dangit. And then I realized that “going home” meant covering the same distance I had just come! Who knew that picking up your own legs could be so difficult? I started to wonder if God had accidentally made my kneecaps out of lead instead of bone. Weren’t they feeling suspiciously heavy?

After agonies untold, I could finally see the end of the trail. And there was my smiling husband, jogging back towards me yet again in order to get me through the final little bit. And I ask myself–is this fair?? He’s never jogged, and yet he has no problem running for 35 minutes straight? At a fast pace?? Smiling all along his merry little way??? I thought the plan was to be pathetic together! Not for him to be competent and athletic and me to be pathetic all by myself!

And that was the last time I jogged.

Last weekend I said to him “Remember that one time we jogged?” to which he promptly responded “Oh yeah–hey, that was a lot of fun!” And that’s all I have to say about that.

Do I want the hot jogger buns? Do I want the attractive rippling calves? Yes. But do I want to feel like I’m about to drown in a pool of sweat due to lung failure? Not so much.

Enough backstory–let’s get to the meat of what’s happening in the here and now. My yoga teacher decided to teach a new class this fall that she calls “cross training,” and positioned it right before the yoga class to encourage us regulars to come to both. Now, I love my teacher. I also love the idea of having a hot, muscly body. So I signed up for both classes, trying not to think too much about the potential suffering to come–after all, when I made this decision I still had the whole summer in front of me to be free as a bird. However, the day has come, and that day is today. September 20th.

I’m scared. It’s one hour of aerobic exercise, folks. A whole hour!

There’s no question of quitting if I don’t like it . . . because I already paid. And based on my deeply entrenched inner workings, I put my mouth where my money is. If I’ve paid, I’m darn well going to get my money’s worth. So whether the experience is hellish or heavenly, my PayPal transaction guarantees I will be there, in my stretch pants and sports bra and ugly T-shirt, once a week. Now you know where you can find me from 5:30 to 7:30 on Monday nights, though whether grinning or grimacing I can’t say.

Will my Mondays through the first week of December be a haven of Muscle Misery, or Fitness Fun? Will my classmates be cold-heartedly competent and athletic and leave me in the dust of my demise? Soon, I will have answers. I’ll keep you all posted and try to keep any whining to a minimum.

What about you guys–what do you do to stay fit? And is it possible to make the transition from loathing running to adoring running? And how long do I have to run before I get the beautiful legs? (please tell me ‘once or twice’–please!)