Sledding-a-go-go

Yesterday, I woke up at 10 am, ready and New-Years-resolution-motivated to go to Bikram yoga with Tara and Cary. I got up, brushed my teeth, and was in the middle of changing into my best combination of snow clothes and clothes you might wear in a room heated to 105 degrees when my phone rang. On the other end of the line, Tara was still presumably sitting in her pjs. "You might want to look outside," she said with resignation. I did, and saw about 6-8 inches of snow...everywhere. "I'm not sure yoga is such a good idea," I replied, intelligently voicing the very reason she had called. "Um...yeah..." was the response.

Seeing as I've lived in Chicago for the past five years, you'd think I'd come to like the snow, or at least expect it. Not so much. Every year I'm delighted with the first snow, thinking, "It's so pretty! I just love nature!" And then comes the second snow. And the third, fourth, and fifth snows. My level of pleasant surprise and awe declines sharply with each successive offering from Jack Frost. In fact, I take it as a personal insult each time I see another inch or two on the ground. "Seriously?!" I think. "You're really going to make me dig out my car for half an hour AGAIN?" Obviously, the reason for the (snow) season must have to do with punishing me for some major but mysterious transgression from my past. It's not like it's winter in Chicago, or anything. "I get it," I will the Snow Gods to hear me, "I suck. Now that that's been established, whaddya say we call it even?" Strangely, this bargaining strategy never seems to have a significant effect.

So last night, after being cooped up in the apartment all day, I decided it was time to turn this situation on its head. "Snow can be fun," I told myself unconvincingly. I recruited a few friends and we decided to put the sleds I bought three years ago to good use. We decided to make a pilgrimage to the most popular (or at least the most fun) sledding hill I know of in the Chicago area: Mount Trashmore.

As you might expect, the distinguished Mount Trashmore has a sordid past. Specifically, it used to be a landfill. The landfill has long been covered over with dirt and grass, which created a steep slope perfect for taking out total strangers who think it's fun to stand around at the bottom of big sledding hills. Now that's entertainment.

After another 30-minute car dig-out, we were off. An hour later, we had some great stories to tell. My friend Becky had done a full 360-degree spread eagle flip in mid-air after accidentally flying over a large bump in the hill. Ann and her two-year-old son Owen had unexpectedly taken a five-year-old girl for a ride down the last third of the slope. I had also gone over the aforementioned "bump" in the hill and ended up knocking the wind out of myself with my own elbow. It was good times.

So, you see, winter's not all bad. There are thrills to be had on sledding hills across the country. And even if sledding's not your thing, think of how great it'll feel to walk into a warm home afterwards, take your snowy clothes off, and sip a marshmallow-topped hot chocolate with a heating pad pressed against your somewhat strained calf-muscle. It's awesome!

Chicago winters, I love you.