I read today in a travel blog that St. Petersburg, Russia, has seven months of winter. Don’t ask me why they would include that depressing tidbit in a travel blog.
I sat there reading this article and thinking, “It must really suck to live in a place with seven months of winter.”
But then I thought to myself, “How many months of winter has Chicago had this year?”
October, November, December, January, February, March, April, May. That’s 8.
Now it may seem odd and frankly, incorrect for me to include October, April, and May in this list. However, winter to me is defined by the need to wear a winter coat–for me, a big, bright-red parka that goes down past my butt. October was definitely cold. April and May both had days in the 40s (high), where I schlepped around campus looking like a tomato in my parka. In my book, that’s definitely winter.
It’s been a really weird year, weather-wise. I’m sure Snowpocalypse and the thunder-snow come to mind–but so does the fact that in May, ostensibly the prettiest month in Chicago, we had a total of seven or eight days where I actually wanted to lounge around outside without a jacket.
So basically, this year Chicago had eight months of winter. Seven if you are nitpicky and don’t want to count May. Woof.