For the first time in just over nine months, I am sunburned. Thankfully, in those nine months I managed to learn that sunscreen is a good idea, so this isn't nearly as bad as last time (in fact, for having been outside from about 10:30 this morning to 7 tonight, I could be far worse-off than a little pinkness and two diagonal still-pale lines down my back where I kept switching my bag around). Today was one of those Chicago days that just shouts "Come outside and play!" and when it does that, you do, because you know it's about to get really oppressively humid in a couple of weeks and the weather won't be fun anymore.
It was blue and sunny and the bike trail was covered in puddles that, apparently, everyone but me avoided (which is silly, because if you're moving fast why wouldn't you want to splash through a puddle? They weren't even particularly dirty). Everyone was out picnicking or running, and it was so picturesque it felt like a movie set, which was a bit unnerving. I blame part of this impression on my morning, which involved people saying hi to me on the street, having a conversation about
Infinite Summer with a bookstore clerk, and hitting Hyde Park's one-and-only yuppie grocery store, which grows cleaner and more expensive every time I set foot in it (I only bought cheese, a pineapple, some chicken, and yuppie paper towels). All my morning was missing was a mellow indie-rock soundtrack that included Sufjan Stevens, but I hear it's illegal to ride a bike while you have headphones on, and even if it's not, it's a dumb idea. So my morning was one of those movies a diegetic soundtrack, mostly of car tires and dogs, and one "55th Street. Walk sign. 55th Street. Walk sign."
Fortunately, the movie ground to an abrupt halt once I took my friend to the zoo. I don't think there are many movie conventions that could sustain a constant barrage of things like "Why don't any of the lions have horns?" and "I'm going to yell at that bear until it turns back into an elf." I also would refuse to be in any movie that involved me drinking a 32-ounce "Apocalyptic Ice" Slurpee. Especially since it was purchased from an
oddly picturesque, yet internally stereotypical (down to the cashiers) 7-11.
I am going to be so sore tomorrow. Ten-mile bike rides after months of being sedentary are only fun in the few hours afterward, before the pain sets in. Though the sunset on the way back, with random people silhouetted in the blue-screen panorama, was pretty worth it.
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