Okay so last Tuesday I was staring out my window, right? Chicago weather doing its usual freakshow thing – bright sunshine one minute, then suddenly hailstones the size of peas bouncing off the fire escape. My buddy Mike calls this “Tuesday.” He’s born and raised here, laughs at me flailing around with an umbrella I never need at the right time. Anyway, he goes, “Dude, you still trying to figure us out? Forget four seasons, Chicago’s got twelve.” I’m like, “Twelve? What kinda seasons are we talking?” He just chuckles and tells me to go find out. Challenge accepted.
The Hunt Begins
First thing, I grabbed my phone. Figured it’d be some fancy tourist thing. Nah. Typed in “twelve seasons Chicago” – nothing official popped up. Weird. More digging, mostly just locals bitching about the weather on forums, using phrases like “Fool’s Spring” or “Second Winter.” Okay, interesting. So it’s not like a festival schedule, it’s more… survival slang. A running joke-turned-reality everyone who lives here just knows. My mission became clear: try to spot all twelve myself.
Here’s my attempt at mapping them out based on what I think I experienced just in the last few weeks alone:
- “Fool’s Spring”: Happened like a week ago! Gorgeous, sunny, hit like 60°F (15°C?). I washed my car. HUGE MISTAKE. Packed away my heavy coat. Idiot.
- “Second Winter”: BAM! Next damn day. Freezing rain, grey skies, that deep chill creeping back. Had to dig out the winter gear I’d just stored.
- “Spring of Deception”: Another warm spell, cherry blossoms even dared to show up somewhere. Felt legit. Ha! Suckers (meaning me).
- “Third Winter”: Right now. Seriously, is that frost on my windshield this morning? This is late April!
And I’m supposed to believe there’s “Mud Season” (slush monster eats your shoes), “Actual Spring” (probably lasts a lunch break), “Summer” (with bonus “Polleny Hell” weeks?), “False Fall” (cool snap teases you), “Road Construction Season” (universal, let’s be real), “Actual Fall” (maybe glorious, for once?), and I assume some brutal “Real Winter” before the whole circus starts again?
The “Cool” Experience (Read: Suffering)
Mike wasn’t wrong. Realizing Chicago doesn’t do four seasons felt strangely liberating. Instead of yelling at the sky every time it snows in May, I just mutter, “Ah, Third Winter. Right on schedule.” Started texting Mike photos of weather nonsense with my best guess: “Is this Hell’s Front Porch (humid & buggy)? Or just Satan’s Sweat Box?” He usually replies, “Yes.”
You don’t buy tickets for this experience. You pay rent. You live here. You get whiplash from the thermostat of the gods messing with you. The cool part is getting the joke. It’s bonding material. Complaining about the unpredictability isn’t just small talk; it’s our shared language. When someone mentions “False Fall,” you nod grimly like a veteran remembering a tough campaign.
So yeah, “12 Seasons Chicago” isn’t some tourist pamphlet thing. It’s the chaotic rhythm of life clinging to the shore of Lake Michigan. You gotta live it, bitch about it, laugh at it (and yourself), to really get it. My list is probably wrong, but hey, the experience feels genuine! Now, anyone got a reliable forecast for… whatever season comes after this?
