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February 11, 2016
By Rafia Ali, Hinsdale Central
Chicago. I’m disappointed in you.
All I wanted this winter was a cute winter coat, ice skating, and a couple of snow days. I got the coat, I went ice skating on a melting Maggie Daley Skating Ribbon, but I didn’t get a single snow day. Not even a freeze day. Not even anything more than 3 inches of snow. And I’m sorely disappointed.
Every year, we get subzero temperatures, cool videos of boiling water turning to snow midair and a whole week of school off, but not this year. This year, we got rain, weather in the 50s and a gray, dreary, warm winter. How dare you Chicago?
How dare you dash my dreams of snow hills created by plows, and endless snow days, and blistering cold, only to give it to the East Coast, wrapped up in a tidy present of snow storm Jonas? I woefully watched Snapstories of Baltimore and New York and the Jersey Shore being cover in magnificent piles of glittering snow, as if bestowed by Elsa herself. Snapstories of snowball fights and snow days and sledding, and then I would have to look outside my own window and see the gray, rainy weather of Chicago. I left the house in a North Face fleece, not a puffy coat, not my ski jacket, but a fleece! Oh the horror…
And now as January drudged by and as February begins, and as the groundhog refuses to see his shadow, I begin to despair that I will never get my winter wonderland, my Elsa-esque Arendelle, my igloo and my snowmen. Quite frankly, I feel cheated, Chicago. We are notorious for our winters, our polar vortexes, our freeze days, yet here I am, having the same whether as someone in St. Louis.
So as our faux winter continues on, I will continue to hope for real snow, not the kind that melts on impact, or the frozen sleet, but the honest-to-god, fluffy white flurries. I want a blizzard, I want subzero weather and I want a polar vortex. Call me crazy, but I prefer to call myself a Chicagoan.
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