The Chicago Air Hates Me

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Greetings from my Chicago office where the white formica gleams with the blinding light of my hopes and dreams. I have time to blog right now while I wait for Italian street food to be delivered to me because something called a ‘Cloudflare’ thing went down and nuked half the internet. I, your sitting Director of Marketing and Technology, have no idea what any of that means, just that there is a high level of nerd panic happening in Atlanta right now because… something… discord…something…cryptocurrency…Gertrude has thrown himself out a window….Madge is tearing at his clothes and screaming at the sky…everything is bananas and we are panicking.

Well, they are panicking. Blog platforms, my website hosts, and social media sites are still up so I, the current reigning Benevolent Queen of Marketing and Technology, can continue to marketing and technological. I have to swap out another conference room computer after lunch, so things are going to get MUCH TECHNOLOGY up in this bitch.

People in TWO cities pay for this genius. TWO.

I really have no idea, either. I look good in a wrap dress, I guess? However, time is running out on that ace, because for one, I turned forty last week and my death is imminent, and two the air here in Chicago HATES me. Always has, always will.

Because I haven’t felt jaded enough lately, apparently I am a unicorn of nordic and mediterranean decent who’s body and temperament loathes heat and humidity, while my skin and hair want the delicious swamp air juice of the South.

Basically God laughed His ass off one day and said, “Lo! Make her tall and ginger!”

Angels cackle in unison with hilarious laughter, “That’s always funny, boss! But make her like one of those gross strawberry blonde ones with TONS of freckles AND give her acne prone combination skin!”

“Big feet, too!”

God pauses his laughter, and the chorus of angels grows quiet, “Yes. All of that. But I will only make her beautiful in climates that make her miserable, and a dusty boil faced gargoyle when she is happy!”

Heaven once again erupts with laughter as this monster is created.

The air in Chicago has hated me since I was ten years old. My hair dries out into crispy medusa waves, even when the humidity is 100% and my skin becomes the surface of the moon. No products combat this. None. I either wear short hair or very long hair. This in between I’m at right now is what the hex feeds on.

“A lob? Hahahahaha! Fry it like bacon on her head!”

Tragic. It is a modern American tragedy. I put enough oil on my head to open my own KFC franchise yesterday, and I looked like a frizz goblin channeling Medusa. Literally $50 worth of argan whatever and keratin on my hair to look like a severed head in a basket under the guillotine.

I have worn the same twisty updo in a jaw clip since 1995 because of this.

I wore a pixie for most of my late teens and early 20s, and quite frankly I would go do it at lunchtime, but Whatshisbutts can hardly handle a chin length bob without shrieking, “You have short hair…LIKE A WITCH.”

I always got tons of compliments on my pixie, but I don’t think I have the jawline to pull it off anymore. I’d probably look like Kate Gosselin, which when you have a personality like mine, isn’t the greatest comparison.

So my options are what they always are:

  1. Cut it all off. Die alone.

  2. Dye it darker to cover up the texture, change my part, and grow it alllll the way out to weigh it down.

  3. Orphan sacrifice

I’ll let you know what I decide.

I’m not as stressed about my skin, because that’s what concealer is for. I can literally rub mineral oil all over my face before bed, only to wake up the next morning with my face choking out dust like the death rattle of an old volcano, and under the ash sits a pox of cystic acne that apparently I will never grow out of. When I die an old lady, my family will be like, “Her zits, doe.”

I learned a lot about Korean skincare from my daughter, so I guess I’ll got to the Korean skin place and drop a gajillion dollars on magical snail jizz masks or something. A friend of mine had the same issue when she moved back from the South, so she basically sleeps in a coffin facing west with 4 humidifiers going every night to mimic the weather from whence we escaped.

Ahhhh, the cruel redhead tax of the North. Proof beauty is pain.

Well, my food is here, so there’s solace in that. I look like the Crypt Keeper, but I’m eating well!

Kill me.


Jennifer Gulbrandsen