How do I know? Let me count the ways...
1. I was out of work at 2:30 on Friday.
2. No matter what happened, the noise coming from Wrigley was the same volume.
3. I rented a car, for
4. A wedding
5. I spent the entire day deciding if I'd need more SPF 400
6. I rode my bike to work
7. Bugs

Oh yeah, Chicago has finally embraced it's sweaty side and brought the heat. FINALLY. There's something wrong about wearing flip flops and wool sweaters, y'know? So off work early Friday and listened to the hum of the Cross-Town Classic (Cubs lost, lost, won in case you missed it) and hoped to avoid the stupid people who would clog the streets, sidewalks, and every square inch of Wrigleyville for the next 8 hours. I avoided most of 'em, and enjoyed the weather.

I always forget *just how much* I love driving in the summer. Windows down, radio up, the sun shining and the traffic light... that's my happy place. The wedding was gorgeous, and the reception divine (it was at a private club in Geneva. It was perfect) and I saw all sorts of friends who live far and wide. However, there was a slight surreality to the reception.

One of my dearest friends feels it his duty to make sure I sample as much of the Chicago dating scene as possible since, now residing in the Mitten State, he misses it. While I don't relish the idea of dying a spinster at 27, I gotta say--there are too many Tucker Maxs out there for me to tolerate. Everybody says that weddings are a *great* place to meet other singles. Welllllll... true. It's just the *type* of single that is found there, especially Saturday as I found myself resisting the advances of a charming older man. By charming, I mean polite, disarming, and fun. By older, I mean older. As in the bride's *grandfather*. He's a charmer, alright. He's "39. Well, twice 39 and a few years." Obviously, the 'half your age plus 7' rule never hit his generation. I thought I was being polite and kind to the cute old grandpa. Obviously, he saw the wedding as another place to meet the ladies.
He has grandchildren older than me. He asked for my number.
Flattering? Only in a strange, surreal way.
(He was a very good dancer, however. They always are.)

I came back to the city and did what any self-respecting hottie does at midnight at Saturday--I went to Jewel for groceries.
Hey, I had a car. I wasn't letting that go to waste!
And what they say about those sordid affairs with the 'cute produce guy'? Yeah, not at *this* grocery. I think he was making the greens wilt.

SO. Great weather equals the need to ride my bike. So I rode in to work today. The first bit--easy-peasy. It was the last 25 minutes (of a 30 minute journey) that killed me. I have to break the ride up into thirds to make it more tolerable; the first third is at North Ave, then Olive Park. (It's not equal parts, obviously) And I'm at Diversey, starting to feel the burn, and realizing that there isn't enough oxygen on the lakefront. Perhaps it's being inhaled by the entire Eastern Chicago population who have moved onto the lakefront at 6:45a. Do you have any idea how many people run/bike/walk/rollerblade at that hour? It's staggering, really. And they're sucking up my oxygen that my muscles are screaming for. My lungs and legs are in direct competition for it, and I'm not sure which are winning, but I think it's my legs because my lungs are attempting to leave my left ribcage and it's not a comfortable feeling. But hey! North Avenue! Where there's...no water?

What kind of city stops the year-round water fountains on the first weekend of 80+ weather? THIS CITY. So I soldier on, fighting extreme dehydration and the wind. That gentle breeze that cools the city due to some meteorologic function where wind gets colder over water? Yeah, it's *always* against you on the lakefront path. *Always*. And at that point, it's not a cooling breeze, it's wind. And it's a bitch.

Olive Park! How I love you...and your non-functioning fountains. Damn. At least there's a diversion: people are acutally swimming in the Lake. They might be crazy Master Swimmers or triatheletes, but they're in there. (Of course they have wetsuits. Who wouldn't?) But then...

I begin the uphill portion of my day. I wheeze over the Chicago River, cursing both my legs and the city planners who couldn't find a way closer to ground-level since a 10-15% incline might give me a heart attack at this point. Of course, this is also because I'm travelling the longest five miles of the year. (Happens yearly.) They say smoking diminishes lung capacity? Just sit around for 4 months and then ride your bike like a bandit. Your lung capacity is diminished, lemme tell you. There's a short part that is downhill--wheee! But there's no rest for me. This is where you seperate the psychos from the normal--psychos pedal downhill. This psycho sees it as increasing my velocity so as to not have to pedal up the immediate uphill portion, or at least have enough momentum to make it easier.

Now. Here's the problem. I had no idea how to get to my office. It's at a weird location, behind a park and up 3 levels from the lakefront. Short of taking lower Wacker (not even bike messengers do that, and they're CRAZY), I could wing it thru the park or go 3 blocks out of my way on clearly marked paths. What do you think I did? Of *course* the park! And the park's 60 degree hill. I couldn't even pedal up the whole thing...I tried, but the bike just sat there. So I push the bike up the rest of the hill, and there's *more* hill to climb to get to the street! Holy Jebus, I have to find a better way to work. I start laughing, and it's either because I find this all funny or the oxygen-deprived eurphoria is setting in. I got to work, cooled down (it takes appx 2 hours for my red face to become, well, not red) and found that I had bugs in/on my chapstick. If that ain't proof of summer, I don't know what is.

If my bike gets stolen today, I will hunt them down and rip off their toenails.

And just think--I do this every day! Of course, I can't begin to imagine the ride home. It's exponentially longer. I don't know how, but the mile between Fullerton and Belmont is, quite possible, detoured around O'Hare.