Chicago winters are a bitch. A huge, raging bitch. Note, I didn’t say “can be”. They simply, are. I have experienced Chicago winters for 23 of my 27 years on this planet, and I have never been sorry for the official end of the season, when you can confidently go outside without worrying about the cold air punching you in the face like you insulted its mother. In fact, I’m not even that fond of the spring. They can be as treacherous as the winters; giving you false hope of a bright, warm sunny day and leaving you with the brutal reality of a high of 61 degrees in temperature alone.
Despite my disdain for the unfortunately annual Chicago winter and spring (okay, maybe I’ll throw the bipolar fall in there, too), I am absolutely in love with our summers. Yes, the recent triple-digit temps weren’t my big boy cup of apple juice, but other than that, this summer, along with just about every other one I’ve had the pleasure of living through has been splendid. Average summer temps range from roughly 80 to 90 degrees Fahrenheit and obviously, everything our city has to offer along with the gorgeous weather make Chicago better than your city during the summer season.
Hanging out with friends, going to Cubs games, walking down Michigan Ave. and enjoying a few months of relatively uninterrupted sunshine are a few other reasons why I go crazy somewhere in Chicago on June 20/21. One rather large reason are the women. The sundress, maxi dress, skinny jeans, bikini, tank top, heel, sandal and sneaker-wearing, smiling, hair-flowing, lovely afro-having, accessorizing, skateboarding, free-walking, confident, pleasant, social, colorful, attractive women that somehow appear from nowhere during the summer. I had this genuine revelation during a conversation with a friend this past Saturday: I adore women in the summer. Seriously, I do.
When it’s 22 degrees outside and the winds make it feel like it’s 2 degrees, many of us don’t want a damn thing to do with each other. We just want to get to school, work, home or wherever the hell it is that is away from the cold. In the summer, though…love. I find myself noticing women no matter where I go, and am almost never disappointed. Whether I’m in Hyde Park, Wicker Park, Wrigleyville, on State St. or Michigan Ave., I feel almost completely surrounded by women who catch my eye, for good reason. The scowl I might see on her face in the winter because it’s too fucking cold is suddenly transformed into a near-magical smile in the summer. Her posture is better. Conversations are sublime, largely because of the happiness I can hear in her voice. Her walk emanates sexiness, but in a usually demure way. Even my compliments and thoughts of them are gentlemanly. It helps to be single and have the freedom to flirt and carry yourself casually, of course.
There’s something about a woman in the summer that I just can’t put my finger on. When I was younger, I looked forward to summer baseball. Once those days and my teens were officially behind me, I began to acknowledge women, especially in the summer. There’s some sort of supernatural allure at work here, people. Perhaps I’m wearing “summer goggles”, as my friend suggested? Maybe. Hell, even Common posed the question: “Why do these girls look so good in the summer?” on “The Questions” (shoutout to Shake). Whatever it is, I will not fight it today, tomorrow, or ever.