Spring is on its way to Chicago, as is evidenced by the pile of wet clothes on my bedroom floor. I took it upon myself to collect every form of precipitation today, save for hail, by traipsing through snow and ice and fog this morning and culminating in the grand finale—a monsoon-inspired bit of rain—during the two minutes it takes me to cross the parking lot after work. ("She proclaimed, 'Tadaaaa,' and curtseyed.")
Of course, the coming of spring is a relief and a joy, so I will gladly wrap myself in a trash bag if need be to stay dry until summer arrives. Friends and coworkers would actually probably pay me to change out of my winter uniform: jeggings, Uggs, bright pink lip balm. ("And not a single damn was given that year.") Sometimes, I'm surprised that my past and future selves haven't shown up to slap me for how thoroughly I have embraced spinsterhood as of late. But then I realize that Pastskirts and Presentskirts and Futureskirts would likely end up making tea and curling up in bed and having a Top Gear UK marathon and talking about Ents and cats. We would also pamper ourselves with facial masks and braid each other's hair and drink root beer floats and collapse into a fit of giggles somewhere around 3 a.m.
So I guess what I've learned today is that 1) I should buy some rain boots, 2) I should make friends with some ladies who aren't imaginary and who aren't me, and 3) root beer floats are still delicious.