the chicago winter is brutal. not like birnsy's, obviously, but brutal nonetheless. and so one must take measures to avoid the inevitable slide into endless sad nights spent alone at home watching dr. quinn.
this winter, thus far, my measures have been limited to buying a giant bag of fortune cookies and eating one every day. because i like cookies and i like fortunes and the marrying of those two likes is something i, not surprisingly, also like.
as doing things one likes seems a logical means of remaining happy during these bleakest months, i've concluded that a potent combo of fortune cookies and walking is going to be my salvation.
i've always endowed walking with a romance it probably does not have. this is, in large part, thanks to two images. the first is evelyn waugh's memory of nancy mitford walking home from work in world war ii london: tall and thin, her heels clicking on the concrete. the second is of the kennedy family matriach, rose, who, when she died, was praised by everyone for having taken a walk every day of her life. as though walking had been her life's work.
despite having nothing to with romance, those two images have coalesced into a belief that, next to death by tuberculosis and/or cholera, walking is the most romantic thing one can ever do.
because i live two blocks off the street on which i work and because waking up half an hour early seems a small price to pay for an hour of sun exposure, i walked into the city this morning. and though i vastly underestimated the quantity of kleenex required for this endeavor and have still not yet regained full feeling in my hands, i count it as a victory to have already walked 3.136 miles- to have been that romantic- by 8 a.m.