There’s snow on the ground, we turned on the heat, and Chocolate-filled Advent calendars are decorating my kitchen. We’ve crossed into winter, and I need to think about how my city-dwelling semi-adult self is going to approach the season.
Winter either makes me want to conquer (if say it like that, it seems productive) every single television show and movie available on the “Watch Instantly” section of Netflix, or it makes me want to discover and master a new (possibly outdoor?) hobby. It always makes me want to turn leftovers into internationally inspired wok creations.
I saw a man running down an ice-covered sidewalk today. He was probably 52-years-old. He juggled three orange balls as he ran. He was dressed in black spandex and wore a hat that said something I don’t remember. I stared at him for seventy-five feet and thought about taking a photograph to look at when I need to feel inspired. I also thought about telling him I was impressed. I wanted to learn all about him, but then I decided that may interfere with his concentration. I hate it when people interfere with my concentration.
I didn’t say anything. Instead, I went back to blowing hot air into my hands as I waited for the bus. Standing in the snow, I watched hipsters pass by me, warming themselves with cigarettes and comments about how nothing is more miserable than waiting on the Sunday bus schedule in twenty-five degree weather. Nobody stopped to wait with me.
Before I started waiting for the bus, I’d been on the train from the suburbs. I thought about riding to the end of the line. I didn’t have anything else to do. I didn’t do it, but I decided that I really would have done it – stayed on the train, I mean – if I’d been on the L and could have just ridden around the loop all afternoon. It seemed like a pensive sort of winter activity. I would need a journal and some headphones. I’d still wear my plaid wool skirt; I’m not into stereotypes.
I think it’s time for me to learn something new. I think I’ll start tomorrow.