Good weather can really make all the difference between a good day and a bad one.
I’ve been out begging for jobs for the last couple of days, and having my usual rate of near total failure, but I haven’t been as depressed about it as normal. Why not? Because we’ve had a two-day preview of summertime here in Chicagoland.
80 yesterday, 82 or so today, both days with a nice stiff breeze coming off Lake Michigan and a stunningly gorgeous blue sky filling out the picture-postcard days and nights of Cubs games and hilariously drunken yuppies. It has been, in two words, perfect weather.
Just hot enough to make you sweat a little when you walk five miles in a job application frenzy, or even just five blocks. It’s been phenomenal, and it sucks away my bad mood. I wish it would continue forever.
I applied, probably along with half of Chicago, to work as a bartender at a beachhouse down by the Lake, and (other than the couple of gay bars I applied to, since I could really use some ass) that’s the one I hope I get the most. Because I’ve realized what a huge difference nice weather makes.
I can go and turn myself into a lobster with my Irish/Russian skin on a daily basis, and I won’t give a flying fuck, because I’ll be outside, soaking up the sun and getting drenched by thunderstorms and ducking the occasional tornado.
I still feel guilty for not having a job. But you know what, I’m looking. I’ll find one. And life won’t suck so much when I feel useful, and I get to walk around in the sun and not feel guilty for not going into every single bar I pass to plead for employment.
That, and not the day I actually put my $120,000 degree to actual use, will be the day I declare myself a success.