As I put on the coffee this morning in my post-Labor Day weekend malaise, I went over my list, starting with driving my mom’s car downtown and returning it to her. I was so exhausted before I even got in the shower that I couldn’t get my contact lenses in my eyes, and that’s when I noticed: it’s chilly in here. Summer is over in Chicago, not by calendar, but by feeling. I put on my glasses and accepted my Clark Kent status for the day.
On my way out the door, my sister-roommate Courtney reminded me that since it’s her 27th birthday today, it means I’m getting older. I consider this, and remind her that I will always be younger (if only by 18 months).
This is my favorite weather of the year: where shorts/skirts combine with long sleeves and are topped off with sunglasses; my sartorial version of the holy trinity. Summer isn’t technically over, but I saw several of my fellow Chicagoans in their boots and sweaters. Don’t give up, comrades. We are stuck in our boots all winter. Resist. I wonder if this would make a good propaganda poster series.
I pull onto Wacker in my borrowed car. It’s nice to get a hug from your mom before heading into work. The crisp air almost made it feel like the first day of school, and I realize how many parents I saw walking the streets of Lincoln Park with their children in tow. That’s right, it is actually the first day of school in Chicago.
There’s a text from Courtney. Two of our eight siblings still haven’t called her with birthday wishes yet. Since she’s not on Facebook, I briefly consider broadcasting their flubs via status update, but that’s just my middle child syndrome flaring up. Instead, I ask her how many ex-boyfriends have texted her a birthday greeting. I guess we’ll always act a little bit like middle schoolers no matter how old we get.
About the author: Kate Napleton (@kknapes) is an art director at Element 79 and a native Chicagoan. She’d rather wait to break out her fall boots, thank you very much. She wishes her sister a very Happy Birthday.