the ocean

I try to resist the urge to complain about the weather, because I recognize it is a topic that pretty much flags for the universe that you have nothing of value to say. We've all been in those elevator conversations at work where we have to restrain ourselves from acts of self harm while Bob from accounting catalogues the various types of humidity he has known. And yet the past several weeks in Chicago have made me realize that the weather has the capacity to literally make me a crazy person. If that is not worth at least a mention, well, I don't know what is. (Taylor Swift?)

You see, the sun has been an infrequent visitor around here. And I've noticed that on the days where it is overcast, I have a tendency to spiral into madness over the smallest things. Train delayed by five minutes? That seems like it's probably the end of the world. Restaurant forgets to hold the cucumbers in my salad? Try to choke back the tears. But if it's actually a nice day, go ahead and kick me in the crotch and steal my wallet; everything's coming up roses! It's like I'm drunk, but on sunshine. I even start randomly calling friends to catch up with them, as though I were three long islands in.

I tried getting one of those artificial sunshine lamps, which does help, but isn't a cure all. Plus, did I mention it's also been cold? This Wednesday I was sitting in my office wearing four layers of clothing, including my coat, and hoping my hands would stay warm enough to type. Thursday I actually came home so I could work from under my covers. (Which is totally legitimate.) I did ask the office of the building to turn my heat up, but that was a bit too much of a Bob Cratchit situation (great band name) for me and so I just gave up. 

I'm not moving to Florida. That's not an answer to anything. Unless the question is "Where can I still find casual racism?"