The ides of September are upon us. I suppose if there’s any time when I should capitulate to the idea that Autumn has graced us with her crispy presence, it’s now. While September 1st marks the start of “meterological fall,” and the Autumnal Equinox is a week away, September 15th seems like the right time to admit that fall has arrived.
All the signs are here: the temperature took a quick drop in the last few days; people have long abandoned all talk of Chicago baseball and have now turned their eyes to their hopes for the NFC North, and daydreams of winter beers, Glogg and girls in skirts and boots fill the time staring out of an el window. For some people.
For me, Fall is always a harbinger of its kissing cousin, Winter, which nobody seems to remember can be rather hard on the system. The short days and long nights, the sub-freezing temperatures and the way the whole mess sort of grinds you down. The holidays fly by in a haze of cheer and obligation, but by the time March rolls around, it’s pretty grim. And many people are foolish enough to think it’s almost over by that point.
So, the ides of September are here, and I won’t lie -- I’ll be fine with Summer showing her face around these parts for as long as she likes. She’s always a welcome houseguest, as far as I’m concerned. But I can’t deny it’s Fall: even the Chicago Landlord/Tenant Ordinance cites today as the day your landlord has to start making sure your place is a decent 68 degrees in the day and a liveable 66 degrees at night.
There have been many throughout the years that have asked the obvious question: “If you hate the winters so much, why don’t you just move?” It’s a fair query, and I wish I knew. It’d have to be a true metropolis. New York, definitely. Los Angeles, I just don’t know. But my heart sings for Chicago, and I guess I’ll suffer the slings and arrows of her exacting winters for the rest of her beauty.