Swaying with the Cold

The weather in Chicago is bleak these days. Supposedly we're looking at single digit highs for the next week with a wind chill factor dropping to overnight lows beyond repair. I can't complain because it's been so unseasonably warm until this point, but the sting of winter never becomes comfortable no matter how hard-nosed you pride yourself in being. Previously short walks unravel into physical tests of fortitude. So with this cold settling in for the foreseeable future, I search out the warm spots in my mind. The Superbowl dream. I tug at my jacket as I breathe deep, chest swelling in and out, the lake effect howling through buildings smacking my rosy cheeks. Reasonable Doubt bumping through my ear buds as my pockets are the only sanctuary for my unsure hands. Walking down Michigan Ave past the Hancock, quick strides, Bears hat pulled low. I see the soul of a city on the brink. Chicago Bears mania has caught hold. I ride the EL and overhear three black gentlemen acting as if someone has spit in their respective faces. They're talking about the seven point spread for four stops before they get off. A father gives his Bears-clad son a piggyback ride down Rush Street. Office lights are strategically left on all night, breathing life into the skyline. Big, bushy, glorious mustaches are on every corner. Screenings of Superbowl XX have been happening all week at bars far and near. Cubs and White Sox fans hook arms around shoulders, forgetting subscribed summertime affiliations. Three days until Super Sunday...

...more to come.