PATIOS IN THE SPRING

In Chicago, Sundays in the spring are meant for sitting on patios with your friends.

Laughing.

Lounging.

Loving the fact that winter is finally fucking over. Feeling the warm sun dance across your skin, seeping in and driving out the cold numb ache left by the gray of winter.  Drinking cider beers and Bud Light and Moscow Mules and not giving a shit if you burn. Instead, reveling in the scorching light, begging for more, as if you were a cat on a sunny windowsill or a solar powered front porch light.

And the city is wild around you.

The streets are full of people, out exploring, dancing, enjoying the open air. Stocking caps and tall boots are traded for tank tops and jean shorts, baseball hats and sandals. Storefront windows open and people pack sidewalk patios and everyone is just fucking happy.

Happiness.

It floods the air and you cannot help but be captured – the intoxicating smell of joy on the wind.

Everyone goes a little bit crazy. You spend absurd amounts of money on things like concert tickets, festivals, and see-through clothing inappropriate for your age. You get tattoos. You order milkshakes for the hell of it and stay out late on Sunday nights and do nothing but smile.

Friends that have been hibernating all winter suddenly reemerge, a fresh influx of energy and you remember why you loved them so much in the first place. Everything is invigorated, revitalized, new, fresh, exciting, hopeful. And you sit together on that patio in the sunlight and make plans for a summer full of music and camping, grilling out and hoola hoops and beaches.

You feel it.

The whole city feels it.

Chicago is waking up.