I Meant Forever

"What part of forever/ Don't you understand?"
--Cee Lo Green

I Meant Forever

When I say "I love you"
What I mean is "forever."

Two pillows, side by side:
His and Hers.
I was always leaving my confines,
Crossing the fence,
Invading your territory,
Trying to get closer.
I wanted to climb inside of you
And curl up with my head on your heart,
And sleep enveloped in the pulsing, pumping organs of your chest,
Feeling your lungs squeeze me like a hug with your breath.

Now one pillow is lonely
Like a bed in a museum.
Unused artifact displaying history of nightly invasion/ occupancy.
Now that I am behaved on my side,
Saving your place, will you come back
And hold my hand across the border
As I sleep peaceably beside you?

When I say "forever"
I mean until the end of my life,
Though selfishness and cruelty replace
The 'love' that left,
And you took breaths so big your lungs suffocated me as I slept in your chest.
Long after your arms held me in the dark and I tried to climb onto your heart,
Long after I have given your pillow away
And crossed the border to stay in his veins,
Long after I have reclaimed the pieces of myself that I lost when you left me,

I will love you.

I desire to be deemed your darling

Nowhere I would rather be but in your arms
Peacefully.
Me holding you, you holding me
Talking/laughing/silently.

Hold me safe and tight;
Wipe my tears as I cry;
Remind me I'm your darling
And my other fears will die.

Touch me Unexpectedly,
Surprise me with a Kiss,
Let your body speak to mine
Wanting/ Needing/ bliss.

Meet my eyes across the room,
Meet me with a look.
I'll follow your form as you traverse
And love you with a glance.

If you put your arms around me gently,
Tell me that I'm loved,
I'll return it on you tenfold;
Be your ever faithful one.

I'll always be your darling if you'll hold me when I cry,
Whisper to me softly that this love is for all time.

This Biker's Worst Enemy

Cities I've biked in: Coppenhagen, Amsterdam, Paris, Sandhausen, Freiburg, Iowa City, Hinsdale, Chicago

Cities I would like to bike in: all of them (excepting London, Tokyo, and Napoli)


The boyfriend has informed me I generalize too much but nevertheless I must start this post with a generalization: biking is the best way to get around a city. Of course, not every city is bike friendly so already I have undermined any credibility I possibly had in this entry.

Nevertheless, I can think of no human experience comparable to the sensation of soaring down a bike lane with the sun on your shoulders, air on your face, and traffic at your back. I imagine I'm a bird flying through the city high above the trials an travails of those poor commuters in their steel cages. Were I bird, I would shit on them, but I am mere man and alas cannot and must not do so.

At night, the city glows a dim yellow and the roads are clear. On a bike, you have the best view of the streets and sights you soar past. Walking is a snail's pace, and in a car you have to crane your neck to look up into the rooftops. On the bike you roll past the city's offerings with nothing above your helmet except the sky and the smog.

This week I got on my bike for the first time in months, and for the first time since crutches. After the painful dawdling of metal legs, flying toward Michigan Avenue on two wheels past taxis and SUV's was exhilarating.  Following a successful stop at the shoe store I strapped my shopping bag to the the handlebars and optimistically mounted my bike.

After the subsequent 45 minutes biking uphill into the wind, I stumbled into my apartment ruing the day I bought that damn Sidewinder.

Therefore, today I will be inspired by the inconveniences that are available to a biker. I have rated my most loathed nemeses below on a scale of 1-10. (Minor Inconvenience - Satan's Gift to Bikers)

These are this biker's enemies:

Intersections: (0) I love intersections. Sneaking through on a red light, or darting past stopped cars are some of the biggest advantages to the sweaty seat of the bike. There's an intersection in Chicago where Ashland, Elston, and Armitage meet. It's a big, open intersection with criss-crossing traffic patterns and deserted surroundings. Riding through with the sky above me and my periphery aware I have the sensation I am in an Imax theatre, leaning back in my seat, watching as the city and sky rush by me.

Other Bikers: (1) Other bikers don't bother me too much mainly because I am so slow I never have to pass anyone. I haven't yet figured out how drafting works, but I'm sure when I do other bikers will in fact become a positive part of my biking experience.

Fat Bikers: (2) It's pretty embarrassing when they pass my skinny ass but, again, when I figure out this whole drafting thing I will look forward to fat bikers.

Kids with buckets of water: (3.) Never ever bike through the low income neighborhood on a 95+ day when the fire hydrant is on. The likelihood is a kid with a bucket will dump its icy contents onto you and your messenger bag as you try to get through the flooding street. And, if you're like me, you may just squeeze your brakes with the force of the hulk, and point your pale, wet snout at the snickering child to yell: "Are you serious? What the fuck is wrong with you? Didn't anyone teach you any fucking manners?!" thereby proving that in fact, no one taught you any manners either.

Moms and Strollers: (6) If you zip past a woman about to cross the street, she won't even flinch. If you zip past a mom with a stroller as she's about to cross the street you a). run the risk of running over a stroller, hence securing a spot in hell b). run the risk of being chased down by the most deadly of all predators: angry mothers.

Garbage or Sewage Trucks: (4) The smell of rot ploughs into my nostrils but the ebb and flow of traffic prohibits me from either leaving the garbage truck in my wake, or being left far behind. So I must bike, gagging, along behind the garbage truck until either it turns onto another street.


CTA Buses: (5) Sharing a lane with a bus is like sharing a bathtub with a walrus.

Potholes: (6) Potholes, especially the deep quarries along North Avenue, are the only things in the city that make me glad for my heavy purple bike and its shocks. Bouncing over the old, torn up road I can feel my teeth rattling against one another.

Doors: (7) Flying open, into your path: the car door. And hence, we enter the danger zone.

Pedestrians: (8) At least drivers know  they are supposed to be paying attention, even if they don't. Pedestrians forget that they are not the only thing in the city. In Amsterdam I watched a drunken tourist step into a bike lane and promptly get run over. One morning I was zipping past the Lincoln Park Zoo when a young woman stepped in front of my bike. I stopped so fast I almost went over my handlebars. Face to face with the girl, who had never bothered to move, I yelled "fuck" at the top of my lungs, again proving that in spite of my mother's best efforts she did not raise a lady. My heart was still pounding as I started pedaling past her. She yelled sorry, but sorry wouldn't have saved either of us if I had hit her.

Distracted Drivers: (9) All drivers are on my top list of enemies. On a bike one just assumes that they must do the thinking for not only themselves but all the cars around them. The advantage of the bike is how quickly you can evade an accident, if it can be evaded. Of course, not all can be evaded. The number of white bikes chained to lampposts around the city attest the perils of the bike and I keep my fingers crossed that, with as slow as I am, most cars will manage to spot me trundling toward them.


Wind: (10) The wind is Satan saying:  "God doesn't love you." I have, on occasion, gone backwards when trying to make my way along the lake on a windy day. And going backwards when half the drivers on the road are all but aiming for you is not conducive to survival. Darwinism is out to get me and I cheat death by taking the train on the windiest of days. I have no intentions of ending up in OZ.

Last time I was at the Art Institute they had a video which featured a biker with a built-in bike lane. The video showed a biker maneuvering through a dark city with green LED lights marking a bike lane in front of and behind him as he went. I like the idea of this aggressive way to stake claim to the road that should rightfully belong to the biker. But I wanted the exhibit to show more bikers: what would the roads look like if we replaced all the cars with bikes? Probably something like Coppenhagen. Now add green LED bike lanes to each of these bikes: what a wonderful panoply of bike lanes would ensue.

Georgia O'Keefe Summer of Yesteryear

Sky Above Clouds IV

Summer in Chicago calls back a barrage of  memories: Lake Shore Drive, the Art Institute, the North Avenue Beach....all of these are places from my childhood which are now encapsulated into my adulthood as I've returned to live in the city of my childhood summers. However, there's a different ambiance in my memories, one which can't be tainted or altered or replaced or replicated by new memories.

Last summer I drove Lake Shore Drive everyday for two weeks in the stifling heat with no air conditioning. My windows were down and as I sat in rush hour admiring Buckingham Fountain and the gorgeous lakefront property I didn't once in that time think about the day my mom's car died in traffic around Monroe street with my sister and I in tow. We were both young enough to sit in the backseat, and I vaguely remember some panic emanating from the front as cars rushed by all around our stranded vehicle. Before I could realize what was happening a thin black man was single-handedly pushed us to safety. I remember him looking exhausted as he pushed our fat car out of the center lane.

I think about that day when I think of Georgia O'Keefe's clouds floating away into oblivion. Hanging above the staircase hiding at the end of my favorite exhibits, Sky Above Clouds IV makes me think of my childhood. I always think of those clouds like the lake: bright and blue, both bringing with them a sense of endlessness as they disappear as far as the eye can see. Somehow the blue lake and the white clouds intermingle to remind me of elementary school summers in the city, when we girls were all healthy enough to travel together to the lakefront for day trips while dad was at work.

The summer of my yesteryear is an impressionist summer: filled with images of clouds and poppy fields, haystacks and blue stained glass. Dare I blame the constant trips to the lion-guarded museum and never ending trips to the galleries immediately west of the grand staircase filled with the Monets, Van Goghs, and Renoirs for my consistent nostalgia, my unending association of seasons with memories, my strong sensation of my past like photos snapping before my eyes with not just the scene but the mood of an entire period of existence. I remember life in impressionist scenes.

London 2006: the dorm in Kensington, hot with that dorm smell; the corner against the brick wall where I made-out under the security camera for hours; roses and vine-covered architecture; the silver Ferrari; the quiet lane; the outdoor seating at the cafe; the culinary school around the corner; heat and newness and excitement- so much excitement I could never sleep; the sound of the garbage truck in the morning and that feeling of awakening: enlivening and rebirthing: the otherness of being somewhere so new so perfect; the late day exhaustion and the sticky bliss. Last time I went to Gloucester Road it was cold and cloudy. It wasn't the place of my yesteryear where I sat on a white balcony in an England shirt overlooking a posh road with a Penguin in hand. A view down Gloucester Road. Late afternoon stale light. Reds, greens, pinks, light blues, and silver. Lots of green hangs over the gray stone pavement.

Iowa 2007: Total contentment. The white-walled house with my London pictures inundating my brain with idyllic memories. Hours spent with Middlesex in Dad's old chair by the window. The Farmer's Market and the drive through the corn to Mt. Vernon. My spot at Lake MacBride, swimming off the rocks. Everything steeped in sun. Mornings at the Java House waiting for the sun to rise feeling like a morning serving customers at the perfect cafe from my memories. Him. Sweaty sex and his bleach-stained T-shirts. His hair cut too close to his head so a halo of white skin poked out around his ears. Lying out on College Green wishing I had the patience for a suntan. A girl sits on a beige chair reading. White morning sunlight. Green trees through the window. White walls and a beige rug. Her face is still and the room is tidy, white and black frames decorate the white white walls. She is small in the scene.

London 2008: Limehouse. Dirty and gray. Cold. Poverty. The man with the smile etched into his lined face pushing his walker in front of his swollen wrapped feet trying to cross the road at Bondway and getting only halfway when the light changed. Looking back and wondering if, how, I could help. Watching in horror as traffic..... waited? Shocked. The smell of bacon and croissants wafting from the coffeeshop at the station. Breaking a sweat speedwalking through the tube with Coldplay in my ears. Life in Technicolor. Reading the Metro and feeling gray and bleak. Dr. House and pidgeon shit. The flat in All Saints and the yellow wooden peace and quiet above the roar of the dirty scummy city below. Life, in its brutal essence. A girl crowded on a gray, dirty subway car. People sit pushed together. No one smiles. Newspapers and the black of the Tube walls racing past the car.

London 09: An idyllic disaster. A confused explosion of distress and unabashed gluttonous pleasures against a backdrop of quiet walks and pastoral Surrey. Still open wounds. A blurry cataract-drawn pastoral scene of a green with an old brick building behind. There is an unidentified figure, a few blurry dots in the background. the midday sun is blocked by a single white cloud, casting an aura of foreboding.

My summers each come with their own impressionist painting, steeped in light and mood. Some have thick brush strokes, some a cloudy atmosphere. Some are a human scene, some distinctly location. They are all my impressionist summers, dominated by a mood and remembered by their atmosphere. Now my Chicago summers wait for their own impression, for which I will wait a little longer as I look toward the Sky Above Lake from my Westside prison of gray metal crutches.

My Wildflowers are Dead in a Dunkin' Donuts Bag

My wildflowers are dead in a Dunkin' Donuts bag under the back porch which I flooded with my compost bucket that has not composted yet because I haven't got any worms.

It's not a metaphor for life.

This summer marks the third summer in a row I will be stateside; moreover I will spend the entire summer recovering from ankle surgery. The prospects aren't good for a successful summer. Therefore I mapped out the things I love about Europe and life that are absent in my American life. When I think of bliss I think of Montmarte on a summer day. Cliche, I know. Even calling it cliche is cliche. But I imagine a sunny, white-walled apartment with flowers and cat on the deck, overlooking a small neighborhood street lined with cafes and outdoor seating. I imagine a baguette and bruschetta on the table and espresso or red wine in my hand. (Probably espresso since the time is early morning, but if I can't drink red wine at 10 am in my fantasy when can I? I surely wouldn't be eating bruschetta at 10 am... so on second thought we will move the time to 11:30 or 12 and I will have wine thank you very much.) Music floats through the room, there's an open book on the table, and somehow in the midst of all this bliss I've found time to write.

Where does Dunkin' Donuts fit in? Watch:

I set out on my 10 step plan for a European Humboldt Park summer of domestic, one-footed bliss.

Step #1: Sunny white-walled apartment. The living room is mostly white except for that one mint wall...close enough.

Step #2: Flowers.

Pre Wildflower Genocide

Flowers are a bit burgeuoisie for yours truly, even in my EuroFantasy, but herbs are practical and bring me to #6-baguettes and bruschetta. You can't have bruschetta without herbs or tomatoes. Strawberries bring to mind London summers, another place of joy in my mind so I will plant those too. I plant my garden, including wildflowers in an attempt to bring some pollenating insects for the berries. (A gardener suggested native plants and when I think of Illinois wildflowers come to mind.)

I plant enough seeds in each pot so I could transplant some later on (30-50 per pot). -Mistake 1- Within 2 weeks all the plants (except strawberries which suffered a terrible fate) were sprouting seedlings. Lots and lots of seedlings. My cilantro now looks like grass. There will be a genocide of cilantro when I decide which plant should live and thin the rest. I had no idea that thinning didn't mean transplanting when I started, so when my cilantro begins to look like my parent's overrun weed garden I decide it is time to move some plants -Mistake 2- over so I can have two pots of each herb going all summer.

I start with wildflowers, sagely, as those were always the least practical plant in my container garden. I do as told on You Tube, watering them an hour before transplanting, tap the pot, and then VOILA dumped them out. (Let's call these -Mistakes 3 and 4 collectively-.)

No root ball....uh-oh....(No shit no root ball these are no more than tiny little bean sprouts- you know the kind you put on your sandwich? Dipshit. ) Previously, when you asked what happened to the wildflowers I may have told you it was the cat. I lied. I happened to the wildflowers.

After half an hour of desperately sticking little sprouts back into the pot and planting some new seeds since the rest are going to die, I decide against transplanting any more plants. I make some new pots with the new Miracle Gro soil that weirds me out and is NOT a part of my French fantasy and put all pots on the deck. Four days later I have one live wildflower seedling.

-Mistake 5- is not my fault, but fate. I wake and it is pouring rain. The boyfriend, who I could usually get to rescue the pots, is working OT and I have no one (save cat) to help me bring in the new plants as it torrentially downpours. I decide plastic bags are going to be the best I can do on one foot, and I finally hop over to the door to see little seedling carcasses floating in a puddle of death in the wildflower pot. I hop out in the rain (surgery dressing, pajamas, and all!) to rescue the plants but (-Mistake 6-) the deck is flooding. If you put your compost bucket (which is not compost yet but just watermelon rinds and mildew) on top of the drainage pipe to keep the cat from escaping to certain doom to the alley below through the drainage pipe, the roof will flood.

I get the water gushing off the roof (thankful the building below is currently unoccupied as I can't be accused of any resultant water damage) and rescue the struggling oregano and preserve the dignity of the wildflowers. Each plant gets its own happy hat of plastic bag and the wildflowers are pushed under the deck in a dunkin donuts bag. I hop inside, smearing mud all over the walls, but content that my flowers are rescued.

The sun comes out a few hours later and I hop back outside to unhat my happy little plants (-Mistake 7 as it is sun-showering.) By the time I come home from work it is chucking buckets again and I am back out in the rain on one foot and the wildflowers go back under the deck where they have been for two days until I see a clear blue sky (-Mistake 8-? CO2?)


They never even made it to seedlings, so I won't bother telling you what happened to the tomato seeds, because I don't know. Needless to say I won't be getting tomatoes this summer. Not even the fast sprout hybrid (wait did that say fast sprout or no sprout?).

So what's the lesson? Besides call my friend the gardener before any more gardening disasters? There's always a grand conclusion, especially if it involves a Mississippi-sized flood on the back roof.

The lesson: I'm writing about it. I've spent 50 dollars on soil and seeds and planter kits and all I've got are dirty garbage bags on the back porch and mud on my little shoe the doctor gave me for my healing foot. I have 8 Mistakes, but I've got step 2 of Christine's road to happiness: "flowers and cat on the deck." Does it matter that because of cat the deck flooded and the flowers are dead? I will keep you posted as I decide.

Wicker Park

The fountain is empty except for some dead leaves, but the sun is bearing down upon the benches circling the park's centerpiece. I find a seat just beyond the shade beside a man with a bag of chips and a book. Looking around, my eyes will pass over some people, whose days will continue on unnoticed by me. Other participants in this scene I will notice for no particular reason.

For instance, a tan dark-haired woman sits reading in the sunlight. She wears a red coat and a red headband in her short wavy hair. It's the same haircut my mom wore in the early 90's. There are deep lines in her face, but they're not the fine lines that hang off the sagging skin of an old woman. They're tight crevasses in firm skin that has been aged by weather; they sit on her face like valleys in a dessert. A younger man and woman who are holding hands come and greet her. Hugs are exchanged and a brown paper bag is pulled from a satchel as all three settle back on the bench. 

Some people will impose themselves into my conscious coincidentally. Some people will impose their existence onto everyone else around the fountain shamelessly. Some people are noteworthy quite by accident.

A couple sits in silence. She sits on a bench holding a book open, but she is looking across the fountain. Her eyes are hid behind dark sunglasses. He is squatting on the curb beside her. His hands are folded and his face is drawn. They don't speak or look at one another.

"Colin! Colin, no!" A little boy turns and waddles back toward his mother. She has interrupted his game, but her only instructions are to stay close so it resumes shortly. His high voice chirps and chatters unintelligibly as he totters around, a puffy coat threatening to topple beneath stubby legs.

A crowd of poorly clad people, several in wheelchairs, are making a ruckus on the two benches closest to the park building. At first I find their noise unnerving, but as I look I am subdued. Laughter and  loud shouts of joy carry around the fount.


My attention is drawn to a gangly boy walking along the rim of the fountain. His khakis are dirt-stained but he is clean. He stops after a while and turns around. Dad is right behind him, walking the rim of the fountain like a tight rope, and he continues forward. Dad's jeans have holes and his T-shirt is faded. There's a dog leash in his hand, on the end of which a shaggy brown dog trots beside him. "Dad, how are you balancing like that?" "Walter is helping me," Dad declares as he totters on the fountain rim and his son jumps into the empty bowl. They make it around the rim before a woman in a long coat sits on the edge of the fountain, talking to two men.

Across the fountain, the trio with the lady in the red coat sit in silence, each with a book in their lap. Heads are bowed identically in the sunlight.

Colin really can't resist following Dad, Walter, and Son around the fountain as they take off on a race. He giggles, tottering after until his mother calls him back. Dad walks around the people sitting on the edge, but then he is back on the fountain rim. Dad isn't young. His hair has grey flecks but his demeanor is youthful. He calls for his aged dog to hurry along as he races Son back to the starting point.

Son jumps into the bowl to get around the woman on the edge, and though she looks at him they do not speak as he passes her.

The ruckus by the building rises again as there is an animated discussion about a marriage. A woman in a leather jacket gets up to make a point and someone else takes her seat as the group reorganizes like a flock of geese squawking as they bumble past one another.

Mom and Sisters show up as Dad sits on the ground on the fountain, Walter on one side, Son on the other. "Boys only!" He insists as Sisters start talking simultaneously. Son and Sisters take off on a race. The woman with the long coat hesitantly gets up from her seat on the edge as the children jump in the bowl to go around her. But before long they are on foot, breaking their self-made rules as they race on level pavement to reach Mom, Dad, and Walter first.

There is some loud laughing debate about who has won and the woman in the long coat looks over with her two companions. There is a teasing note carried on the wind toward me and the three burst into mean laughter. I decide I don't like them. They are dressed in recycled clothes with unshaven faces and messy hair. In another place they may have been friends with Mom and Dad and Walter. There is no Burberry or Prada on Mom or Dad. Dad wears sunglasses and I suspect he doesn't quite feel his age, but his children, wife, and dog look happy. The three who laugh don't seem to share smiles of joy. Their humor is at someone else's expense. They are old enough to be parents, but I wonder what their occupations are: weekend busker? resident snob? smelly bar local?

Colin is racing himself in circles around the fountain now. I hear him scream "winnnninnnnng" as he passes.

Across from me the man and woman with the books rise. They say goodbye to the woman in the red jacket. I wonder where the brown paper bag went.

Dad Mom Walter Son and Sisters take their leave to get pizza. Quiet follows their absence and the woman in the long coat and her friends are happily seated on the edge of the fountain again. Now, with the exception of the noisy group by the building who are finding great amusement in regaling tales of "the guy you play chess with, yeah him, his wife," it is quiet. We all stay seated on our respective benches. A jogger passes through, and a richly dressed family with heels and Jersey accents walk through, but there are no permanent interruptions to our solitude. We can all sit in our cloud of hipster ignorance and continue believing our single, childless lives are deserving of this solitude.

Midwesonal

The boots sitting just within my closet must be stowed, the down jacket must be folded away and boxed up, and the the box of hat and gloves must be stored under the bed. Yesterday was the first day of spring. Not March 21, the vernal equinox when the world was cold and miserable, but yesterday when the sun was out and the thermostat said 80 (or 26 for you metric scalers). It was "a scorcher" and, like the pale-skinned Irish descendant I am, I managed a light pink sunburn. The whole city seemed more alive than it has been in months, as if like plants we were all just waiting for a little sunlight before we peeked our heads out from under piles of pea coats and began to photosynthesize.

What is it about the spring and summer that enlivens us so? One would never have guessed we were still deep in a recession yesterday. The outdoor patios were packed and even house pets were making their way to the restaurants for some conversation and appetizers. Why are we more inclined to head out when the weather is nice? Just because we can sit outside and drink to a din of revving engines, sirens, and tires hitting potholes? There is of course the simple explanation that the weather is, after all, nicer out but we're Midwesterners: blizzards can't keep us in. So why will first breezy day of summer draw us all out, to find a little spare change in our meager budgets and lavish our money on a table at the cafe?

I, like so many others, spent the weekend sitting out at the bars on Division, drinking beers and letting the sunlight defrost my frozen self. The sun seeped past my pale complexion and seemingly all the way into the part of my soul that has spent the last 4 months repeating: 2011 blows . Case in point, yesterday I had to wait 40 minutes outside for a bus, and I didn't even mind (rare occurrence!). I sat on a bench, reading, oblivious to everything except my own extreme contentment.

Life feels better today. Today we went grocery shopping and I was full of optimism. "I want to go to that cafe some time. Oh, and we should get sushi before you head to work sometime soon. We need to check out that French restaurant I was telling you about. Life is good. I can't wait for summer." These were unusual words from someone who spent the last three months informing people, "I'm not going out tonight. I'm tired," and dreading the summer months, when my pocketbook gets thin and consequently so do I.

I should move to California; perhaps my life would change and I would spend all my days sitting on the back porch reading, sipping lattes, and being perfectly content.

After all, I hate winter. I am incapable of heating my own body and spend the entire winter, from January-March, locked away under various blankets trying to convince either the cat or the boyfriend to come snuggle. I don't like going out even to a party in the cold, and this year I refused to clean my car for 6 months simply because I didn't want to spend that much time outside. I spent a weekend in Arizona this February, and though I didn't find Phoenix very much to my tastes, I also didn't want to leave. I had to return to a blizzard, and more shoveling myself out of parking spaces while lamenting the loss of each feather from my down jacket as one tiny iota less of heat. 

Now, summer is coming and everything is perfect. 

Yet, there is something about growing up in the Midwest that makes me indifferent to the seasons, in spite of my complete abhorrence of them. I would never dream of moving somewhere to stay warm. (For Heaven's sake I even went backpacking through Germany in November once- not exactly the Bahamas is it?) Top on the list of places I would like to move are Boston, New York, or Minneapolis. None of these cities have mild or temperate climates. I can in the same sentence I am complaining about the cold rave about wishing to move to Boston. What has life in the midwest done to warp my mind so I can't make this simple connection?

My thought patterns: Boston is North - North is cold - Cold is miserable- THEREFORE Boston will be a great place to live.

Is it because I am young and poor and too used to denying myself any pleasure? Is it because I dread the heat of an Arizona or Texas summer nearly as much as the cold of Chicago?

I do not believe there is any reason for my self-denial other than years of  enduring. I have lived with seasons all my life. And the truth is, I actually love the first snow, the wintery snuggliness, the cookies, the hot chocolate, the christmas decorations covered in a light dusting....if we could remove January, February, and March from the calendar perhaps life would be perfect. But then, where would be the joy in the first day of spring, and laying aside the boots and gloves? Perhaps the beauty is in the contrast, and the novelty of sun after so many months of cloud cover.