The following takes place between 12AM and 10:30AM on the day of the Fleet Feet Ravenswood 5K Run. (blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep..)
The cab dropped me off at my apartment at almost exactly midnight. I sighed when I saw that the broken glass in the front door had not been repaired while I was away. I stopped to check my mail, and sighed again when I pulled out a large envelope from the state of Illinois, knowing it must have something to do with my 2008 tax return.
I climbed the stairs and greeted my poor lonely cat, only to find more mail waiting for me on my desk. On that pile, there was a second letter from the state of Illinois. I rubbed my bleary eyes and opened both envelopes, only to find that they contained conflicting information. One said I had to fill out another form, while the other said I needed to take no action. Wonderful. It looked like another morning on the phone was in my future. However, I knew I could not do anything about it until Monday, so I set them aside.
I unpacked what I had to and looked up exactly where I needed to go for the race in the morning. As I put on my pajamas and brushed my teeth, yet another thing I had been fearing happened: I coughed, and I felt it all the way into my chest. In the past, congestion had almost always followed when I got a sore throat, and congestion was seriously going to affect my ability to run. After all I had been through, I was determined to get to the race, so I silently pleaded, please, phlegm, hold off just a few more hours…
I was about to lay down when I realized I had to go to the bathroom. So, I did, and just because of everything that could go wrong had to, the toilet clogged. This is not uncommon in my crappy apartment, and usually easily fixed, but of course this time I could not manage to get it unclogged. I gave up after a few tries, assuring myself that I’d remember and try again in the morning. I set my alarm for 6AM, and finally fell into bed at about 12:30AM.
I slept fitfully, both because I was nervous about not waking up on time and because my attention-deprived cat would rather I be awake. I got up with the alarm at 6 and started to get ready. I knew I had to leave by 6:45, so I tried not to dawdle. Unfortunately, I did not remember the toilet had clogged until after I flushed it again. I narrowly avoided an overflow, and then decided I would just wait until I got home to deal with it. I ate breakfast, checked the radar (no rain!), put on my race number, and drank some water. Then, as per usual for a race day, my nerves got to me and I had to go to the bathroom again.
I knew I had to leave in about 5 minutes, but decided to try to fix the toilet first. It was a ridiculous scene. I was using an old Cool Whip container empty some (clean!) water out of the toilet bowl into the sink so I could flush and plunge it again. I was on my second round of this, pondering what else could possibly go wrong today, when I heard my cat start throwing up.
Generally speaking, this would not be a big deal. But it meant I had to clean it up, which would cost me more time. Time that on this morning, I just did not have. But wait… it gets better! I stepped out of the bathroom to see that Fraidy is not just throwing up, she is throwing up ONTO MY RUNNING SHOES! I rushed to grab the shoes but didn’t quite get them out of the way. She at least threw up onto the toe, and not into the shoes, but for cripes sake! Even any other pair of shoes would have been better than this!
Now completely resigned to being late, I managed to unclog the toilet, clean off and lace up my shoes, and get out the door at about 5 to 7. I ran to the bus stop, realizing at some point that I forgot my watch. The least of my worries, really, but still annoying. I got on the bus and made it to the race site by 7:30. I drank a cup of coffee, dropped off my stuff at the racing team tent, and then stepped into the starting corral. I decided to line up between the 9:30 and 10:00 pace markers, which is where I would need to be if I wanted to break 30 minutes.
As I stood in the corral, it finally occurred to me that I was tired. I tried to tell myself that my finish time did not matter, but the truth was that I REALLY wanted to break 30 minutes, and was trying to prepare myself to be disappointed. I ran into a few people I knew, which was a nice distraction. But eventually, the race started, and I was in that solitary place that only a runner understands.
I looked for a clock when I crossed the start line, but did not find one. So, I just ran at a pace that felt doable. When I reached the 1-mile mark, the clock read 11 minutes. Since I didn’t know how long it took me to cross the start line, this did not tell me much, but I figured I was going at about a 10-minute mile. I knew this would not allow me to break 30, but I also knew I did not have the energy to speed up. So, in Energizer Katie style, I just kept going.
I crossed mile 2 when the clock read 20:10 or so, which meant I was running at just over a 9-minute pace! I was excited, but I tried not to overanalyze and, once again, just kept going.
In the end, I crossed the finish line when the clock read almost exactly 30:00, so I knew I broke 30. Satisfied – actually, elated – I wandered through the post-race festival, ate my fill of free bagels, cookies, and cinnamon rolls, and headed home. When I got there, I took my usual post-race photo and stretched out, then unpacked my suitcase. At about 10:30, I checked for race results online and found out my official time: 28:20, almost 50 second faster than my time at this race last year.
Victory, in the end. The past 24 hours had run the gamut of challenges and emotions. I was sad, satisfied, grateful, scared, bored, and frustrated. But none of that conquered me in the end. Just like I do when I run, I just kept going, and eventually I got through it. I’m actually quite proud.
However, remind me never to ask to be challenged again.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Challenger Mission, Part II
The following takes place between 12 noon and 12 midnight on the final day of the 2009 NCTM National Meeting and Exposition. (blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep..)
By noon on Saturday, I was on my way to the airport. During the walk and on the metro, I downed the rest of the water in my water bottle, knowing they wouldn’t let me take the bottle through security otherwise. I was regretting drinking it so fast by the time I was waiting in the security line, because my sore throat was raging and nothing but water really helped.
When I got to my gate, a different flight was on the monitor, scheduled to leave just a half hour before mine. I asked if I was at the right gate, and the airport agent told me I was. The other flight had been moved to this gate at the last minute, and although it would probably push my flight back a few minutes, it was nothing to worry about.
My flight was indeed delayed about a half hour, which at first did not seem like a huge deal. The plane was on the small side – a commuter jet – so my bag would not fit in the overhead bins and it was valeted. I would have to pick it up planeside when I disembarked in Chicago.
The flight itself was uneventful – I read a lot of magazine articles and a few chapters in my book, and tried to soothe my throat with hard candy and tea. By the end, I was dozing off. I was jolted awake after about 90 minutes in the air by an announcement from the pilot, saying we were in a holding pattern over O’Hare, waiting out a thunderstorm. After 20 minutes or so of circling, the pilot got concerned about fuel, and headed for Indianapolis. The thought of more delays didn’t exactly thrill me, but the flight crew said that we’d likely only be on the ground in Indy for 15 minutes, so I went back to sleep. We had taken off from Washington at about 3:30, and landed in Indianapolis at about 5:30. I had hopes of landing in Chicago by 6:30 and getting home by 8.
Sadly, it was after 6 before we even got any fuel. The pilot apologized and said he was going to edge out to the end of the runway so we would be among the first in line to be given clearance to take off. He did, and we waited. And waited. And waited. At around 6:45, the pilot announced that O’Hare was now in a full ground stop – nothing was taking off or landing. And now, because so many planes headed to O’Hare had to land at Indy instead, there was not even a gate available. We couldn’t take off, and we couldn’t deplane. We were stuck in the plane until the thunderstorms let up.
In an attempt to make things more comfortable, the flight attendants started passing out free Pepsi and orange juice, and then free trail mix. The time ticked by. By 7PM, they were bringing around free beer, wine, and margaritas. Then more trail mix. At 7:20, I just could not take it any more and had to get up out of my seat and walk up and down the aisle. I had finished my magazines long ago and sat back down to finish my book. My already negative mood was not improved when one of my favorite characters died at the end. I sighed and popped my last piece of hard candy into my mouth, hoping it would coat my throat and keep me from utter misery until I got home.
At 8PM, having been on the plane for 5 hours and finished every distraction I had, I called my parents to see what they could tell me at the storm system. They looked at weather.com and told me they thought that a break was coming. At the same time, the pilot asked us to sit down and prepare for take-off, as they were letting a limited number of planes go. My hope renewed, I turned off my phone and stowed my tray table. Recalculating in my head, I figured I had a chance of getting home by 10PM.
Less than 10 minutes later, the pilot yanked those shreds of hope away and said we would not be taking off. Instead, he taxied us to a gate. I was despairing at this point. As much as I wanted to get off the plane, I would rather have taken off. I so desperately wanted to get home. My throat was on fire, I was exhausted, and oh yes…. did I mention that I was supposed to be running a 5K race at 8AM the next morning?
When we got to the gate, the flight attendants finally confirmed the inevitable. The flight was cancelled. We all had to get off the plane and rebook with the agents standing at the gates. I couldn’t help it; I let out a moaning, “noooooo…” It was now almost 9PM, and Indianapolis was not a very large airport. I doubted that I was going to get a flight to Chicago that night. And according to others on the plane, the airline was not required to provide a hotel if the flight was cancelled for weather reasons. I was looking at a long night in an airport, alone, and it looked like I was going to miss my race. I stood at the end of the tunnel, waiting for my valeted bag, exhausted and disappointed, but not yet in a panic.
The panic came when I walked into the airport. All the iron gates were coming down in front of the restaurants and stores and there wasn’t a soul in the airport except for the people on my flight. Because I had to wait for my bag, I was at the end of a long and very slow-moving line. I was looking at a long night in a dead airport, with nothing to read, eat, or see. My throat hurt all the way into my ears and I had no water, candy, or lozenges. And suddenly I became aware of how alone I really was.
I tearily called my mother and asked her to find out how long it would take me to drive to Chicago. The answer was at least three hours, and I knew immediately I did not have it in me to do a three-hour, unfamiliar drive in a rental car safely. I was going to be stuck overnight. I ended the conversation quickly after that, knowing I needed to try to calm myself down.
Ten or so minutes later, I had managed to stop my tears, but the line had barely moved. The waiting was unbearable – there’s nothing that gets my anxiety going like a lack of information or control, and I had none of either. Luckily, one guy standing near me in line gave me the 800-number for the airline, and when I called, they told me there was one more flight from Indianapolis to Chicago tonight, at 9:45. It was now 9PM. I felt myself physically relax a little. The agent rebooked me over the phone, but told me not to get out of line, because an agent at the airport would have to check me in and print me a boarding pass.
My relief lasted about 5 minutes, at which point I noticed again how slow the line was moving. At this rate, there was no way I would make it to the counter by 9:45, let alone with enough time to board a 9:45 flight. At that moment I also realized that I did not know the flight number of my new flight, or how far away the gate was. I called the 800-number again and related these worries to the agent. She told me the gate was B9 – right next to the one I was at. She also said that all bets were off tonight, and I didn’t need to worry about checking in a full half hour before take-off.
That placated me for about another 10 minutes, but when they began boarding my flight and the line had yet to move, I got worried again. In desperation, I did something I hate… I asked the people in front of me to let me go ahead of them, since I was already rebooked and only needed the agent to hit the print button for me. They didn’t let me go, but a woman near the front of the line next to me heard the situation and did let me go. As I expected, it took the agent approximately 30 seconds to print my boarding pass. I didn’t make eye contact with the people who had refused to let me pass as I walked to my gate and boarded. I was simultaneously ashamed for having asked at all and annoyed they were so stubborn.
Then another interminable wait began. I sat on my new plane, willing the flight attendants to close the bins and the pilot to taxi away from the gate. Although I was relieved to be on a flight, I was not going to relax until I was sure the flight would take off. I sat there, staring straight forward, for another 45 minutes. The only thing I clearly remember about that time is that at one point, it occurred to me that my throat didn’t hurt. While I was glad of that, I said a little prayer that my next symptom would not be congestion. After all, I was running a 5K in the morning. (Or was I?)
Finally, at 10:30PM EST, we taxied away from the gate, and after a 10-minute wait on the runway, we took off. I spent the entire 40-minute flight staring out the window at the clouds and the disconcertingly close lightening. There was a lot of turbulence, too. It wasn’t until later that it occurred to me to be scared; I was too intent on landing in Chicago and not anywhere else. When we finally touched down at O’Hare, it was 10:47PM Chicago time, and I was physically and emotionally spent. I called my mother to tell her I made it, then made my way to the blue line. I got off at Belmont and hailed a cab. Finally, as I sat alone in the backseat, I relaxed. I would be home by midnight – 7 hours later than I intended, but home nonetheless. For those 15 minutes, I had a little peace.
We’re transitioning to Sunday now, so I’m calling second intermission. Can you believe we’re not done yet?
(blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep..)
By noon on Saturday, I was on my way to the airport. During the walk and on the metro, I downed the rest of the water in my water bottle, knowing they wouldn’t let me take the bottle through security otherwise. I was regretting drinking it so fast by the time I was waiting in the security line, because my sore throat was raging and nothing but water really helped.
When I got to my gate, a different flight was on the monitor, scheduled to leave just a half hour before mine. I asked if I was at the right gate, and the airport agent told me I was. The other flight had been moved to this gate at the last minute, and although it would probably push my flight back a few minutes, it was nothing to worry about.
My flight was indeed delayed about a half hour, which at first did not seem like a huge deal. The plane was on the small side – a commuter jet – so my bag would not fit in the overhead bins and it was valeted. I would have to pick it up planeside when I disembarked in Chicago.
The flight itself was uneventful – I read a lot of magazine articles and a few chapters in my book, and tried to soothe my throat with hard candy and tea. By the end, I was dozing off. I was jolted awake after about 90 minutes in the air by an announcement from the pilot, saying we were in a holding pattern over O’Hare, waiting out a thunderstorm. After 20 minutes or so of circling, the pilot got concerned about fuel, and headed for Indianapolis. The thought of more delays didn’t exactly thrill me, but the flight crew said that we’d likely only be on the ground in Indy for 15 minutes, so I went back to sleep. We had taken off from Washington at about 3:30, and landed in Indianapolis at about 5:30. I had hopes of landing in Chicago by 6:30 and getting home by 8.
Sadly, it was after 6 before we even got any fuel. The pilot apologized and said he was going to edge out to the end of the runway so we would be among the first in line to be given clearance to take off. He did, and we waited. And waited. And waited. At around 6:45, the pilot announced that O’Hare was now in a full ground stop – nothing was taking off or landing. And now, because so many planes headed to O’Hare had to land at Indy instead, there was not even a gate available. We couldn’t take off, and we couldn’t deplane. We were stuck in the plane until the thunderstorms let up.
In an attempt to make things more comfortable, the flight attendants started passing out free Pepsi and orange juice, and then free trail mix. The time ticked by. By 7PM, they were bringing around free beer, wine, and margaritas. Then more trail mix. At 7:20, I just could not take it any more and had to get up out of my seat and walk up and down the aisle. I had finished my magazines long ago and sat back down to finish my book. My already negative mood was not improved when one of my favorite characters died at the end. I sighed and popped my last piece of hard candy into my mouth, hoping it would coat my throat and keep me from utter misery until I got home.
At 8PM, having been on the plane for 5 hours and finished every distraction I had, I called my parents to see what they could tell me at the storm system. They looked at weather.com and told me they thought that a break was coming. At the same time, the pilot asked us to sit down and prepare for take-off, as they were letting a limited number of planes go. My hope renewed, I turned off my phone and stowed my tray table. Recalculating in my head, I figured I had a chance of getting home by 10PM.
Less than 10 minutes later, the pilot yanked those shreds of hope away and said we would not be taking off. Instead, he taxied us to a gate. I was despairing at this point. As much as I wanted to get off the plane, I would rather have taken off. I so desperately wanted to get home. My throat was on fire, I was exhausted, and oh yes…. did I mention that I was supposed to be running a 5K race at 8AM the next morning?
When we got to the gate, the flight attendants finally confirmed the inevitable. The flight was cancelled. We all had to get off the plane and rebook with the agents standing at the gates. I couldn’t help it; I let out a moaning, “noooooo…” It was now almost 9PM, and Indianapolis was not a very large airport. I doubted that I was going to get a flight to Chicago that night. And according to others on the plane, the airline was not required to provide a hotel if the flight was cancelled for weather reasons. I was looking at a long night in an airport, alone, and it looked like I was going to miss my race. I stood at the end of the tunnel, waiting for my valeted bag, exhausted and disappointed, but not yet in a panic.
The panic came when I walked into the airport. All the iron gates were coming down in front of the restaurants and stores and there wasn’t a soul in the airport except for the people on my flight. Because I had to wait for my bag, I was at the end of a long and very slow-moving line. I was looking at a long night in a dead airport, with nothing to read, eat, or see. My throat hurt all the way into my ears and I had no water, candy, or lozenges. And suddenly I became aware of how alone I really was.
I tearily called my mother and asked her to find out how long it would take me to drive to Chicago. The answer was at least three hours, and I knew immediately I did not have it in me to do a three-hour, unfamiliar drive in a rental car safely. I was going to be stuck overnight. I ended the conversation quickly after that, knowing I needed to try to calm myself down.
Ten or so minutes later, I had managed to stop my tears, but the line had barely moved. The waiting was unbearable – there’s nothing that gets my anxiety going like a lack of information or control, and I had none of either. Luckily, one guy standing near me in line gave me the 800-number for the airline, and when I called, they told me there was one more flight from Indianapolis to Chicago tonight, at 9:45. It was now 9PM. I felt myself physically relax a little. The agent rebooked me over the phone, but told me not to get out of line, because an agent at the airport would have to check me in and print me a boarding pass.
My relief lasted about 5 minutes, at which point I noticed again how slow the line was moving. At this rate, there was no way I would make it to the counter by 9:45, let alone with enough time to board a 9:45 flight. At that moment I also realized that I did not know the flight number of my new flight, or how far away the gate was. I called the 800-number again and related these worries to the agent. She told me the gate was B9 – right next to the one I was at. She also said that all bets were off tonight, and I didn’t need to worry about checking in a full half hour before take-off.
That placated me for about another 10 minutes, but when they began boarding my flight and the line had yet to move, I got worried again. In desperation, I did something I hate… I asked the people in front of me to let me go ahead of them, since I was already rebooked and only needed the agent to hit the print button for me. They didn’t let me go, but a woman near the front of the line next to me heard the situation and did let me go. As I expected, it took the agent approximately 30 seconds to print my boarding pass. I didn’t make eye contact with the people who had refused to let me pass as I walked to my gate and boarded. I was simultaneously ashamed for having asked at all and annoyed they were so stubborn.
Then another interminable wait began. I sat on my new plane, willing the flight attendants to close the bins and the pilot to taxi away from the gate. Although I was relieved to be on a flight, I was not going to relax until I was sure the flight would take off. I sat there, staring straight forward, for another 45 minutes. The only thing I clearly remember about that time is that at one point, it occurred to me that my throat didn’t hurt. While I was glad of that, I said a little prayer that my next symptom would not be congestion. After all, I was running a 5K in the morning. (Or was I?)
Finally, at 10:30PM EST, we taxied away from the gate, and after a 10-minute wait on the runway, we took off. I spent the entire 40-minute flight staring out the window at the clouds and the disconcertingly close lightening. There was a lot of turbulence, too. It wasn’t until later that it occurred to me to be scared; I was too intent on landing in Chicago and not anywhere else. When we finally touched down at O’Hare, it was 10:47PM Chicago time, and I was physically and emotionally spent. I called my mother to tell her I made it, then made my way to the blue line. I got off at Belmont and hailed a cab. Finally, as I sat alone in the backseat, I relaxed. I would be home by midnight – 7 hours later than I intended, but home nonetheless. For those 15 minutes, I had a little peace.
We’re transitioning to Sunday now, so I’m calling second intermission. Can you believe we’re not done yet?
(blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep..)
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Challenger Mission, Part I
I’ve had some long days in my life, but I must say that the 24-hour period from 10:30AM on Saturday to 10:30AM this morning is one for the record books. It’s one of those stories that’s dying to be told… so without further ado….
The following takes place between 10:30AM and12:00AM on the final day of the 2009 NCTM National Meeting and Exposition. (blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep)
At 10:30AM I walked out of my last session of the NCTM Conference in Washington, DC, and I felt my spirits sink. I had been looking forward to the trip for weeks, and the last three days had been blissful. I dawdled before walking out of the convention center, unwilling to admit it was over. When I actually walked out the door, I teared up a little.
Because the weather was beautiful and I was in no hurry, I decided to walk the 1.5 miles back to the hotel instead of taking the shuttle. I spent the walk thinking over the trip, and at first my sadness was replaced with a deep sense of gratitude to my bosses for sending me to the conference. I learned so much and grew so much professionally -- even now when I think about it, I am certain that taking the job I have now is one of the best decisions I ever made.
Still, by the end of the walk, my emotions had shifted yet again, and I was unsettled. My time in Washington DC had been a series of time warps for me, really. As I walked along the reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial, I was transported back to my senior year of college, when I had walked along that pool with my best friend – one of the last moments we spent together before a lot of fighting and a kind of letting go that would change our relationship forever. As I played Mancala with my coworker, I was transported back to my childhood, when I played the same game with my cousins using pennies and egg cartons – a common pastime at a summer cottage that was an oasis for me for years. When I looked upon the steps of the Capitol, I was transported back to my senior year of high school, when I sat on those same steps with the other members of my engineering team after winning the trip to DC. And when I wandered down to the Watergate hotel on my own, I was transported back to my time abroad, when traveling alone went from being something I feared to something I enjoyed. For some reason, my three days in DC reminded me a lot of the times in my life when I was happiest and most satisfied.
When I contrasted all those times with what I felt as I left the convention center, I recognized some differences. Although I was happy and grateful now, I was somehow not satisfied. I knew I deserved to go to the conference, but I also knew I hadn’t really worked for it the way I’ve worked for other rewards in my life – like the trip my engineering team won to DC, or conquering my fears of being alone like I did in Sweden. I have proven myself in my work. My colleagues and even my superiors respect me. I’m good at my job. That’s all great, but it occurred to me by the end of my walk that I haven’t felt challenged – really challenged – in a long time. I needed a new challenge.
You’ll be happy to know that the philosophical part of the day was over. The thought made me tired as I reclaimed my bags from the hotel. As I sighed I remembered how badly my throat hurt, and I stuffed a handful of hard candy from the hotel front desk in my carry-on bag. I tried to put the lack of challenge thought out of my mind. It’s ironic, really, that I had been thinking I wasn’t challenged enough, because the series of events that followed challenged every aspect of my self control and psyche.
It’s late, so I’m calling intermission. I’ll post the rest of the story tomorrow. Try to stand the suspense.
The following takes place between 10:30AM and12:00AM on the final day of the 2009 NCTM National Meeting and Exposition. (blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep)
At 10:30AM I walked out of my last session of the NCTM Conference in Washington, DC, and I felt my spirits sink. I had been looking forward to the trip for weeks, and the last three days had been blissful. I dawdled before walking out of the convention center, unwilling to admit it was over. When I actually walked out the door, I teared up a little.
Because the weather was beautiful and I was in no hurry, I decided to walk the 1.5 miles back to the hotel instead of taking the shuttle. I spent the walk thinking over the trip, and at first my sadness was replaced with a deep sense of gratitude to my bosses for sending me to the conference. I learned so much and grew so much professionally -- even now when I think about it, I am certain that taking the job I have now is one of the best decisions I ever made.
Still, by the end of the walk, my emotions had shifted yet again, and I was unsettled. My time in Washington DC had been a series of time warps for me, really. As I walked along the reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial, I was transported back to my senior year of college, when I had walked along that pool with my best friend – one of the last moments we spent together before a lot of fighting and a kind of letting go that would change our relationship forever. As I played Mancala with my coworker, I was transported back to my childhood, when I played the same game with my cousins using pennies and egg cartons – a common pastime at a summer cottage that was an oasis for me for years. When I looked upon the steps of the Capitol, I was transported back to my senior year of high school, when I sat on those same steps with the other members of my engineering team after winning the trip to DC. And when I wandered down to the Watergate hotel on my own, I was transported back to my time abroad, when traveling alone went from being something I feared to something I enjoyed. For some reason, my three days in DC reminded me a lot of the times in my life when I was happiest and most satisfied.
When I contrasted all those times with what I felt as I left the convention center, I recognized some differences. Although I was happy and grateful now, I was somehow not satisfied. I knew I deserved to go to the conference, but I also knew I hadn’t really worked for it the way I’ve worked for other rewards in my life – like the trip my engineering team won to DC, or conquering my fears of being alone like I did in Sweden. I have proven myself in my work. My colleagues and even my superiors respect me. I’m good at my job. That’s all great, but it occurred to me by the end of my walk that I haven’t felt challenged – really challenged – in a long time. I needed a new challenge.
You’ll be happy to know that the philosophical part of the day was over. The thought made me tired as I reclaimed my bags from the hotel. As I sighed I remembered how badly my throat hurt, and I stuffed a handful of hard candy from the hotel front desk in my carry-on bag. I tried to put the lack of challenge thought out of my mind. It’s ironic, really, that I had been thinking I wasn’t challenged enough, because the series of events that followed challenged every aspect of my self control and psyche.
It’s late, so I’m calling intermission. I’ll post the rest of the story tomorrow. Try to stand the suspense.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
And... time to go.
I haven’t had the best luck with apartments. Granted, I adored the apartment I lived in my senior year in college, but since then things have gone downhill.
My apartments have always looked good on the surface. My first apartment in Chicago was on the first floor of a 2-flat house. It had a well-lit living room, a deck out back, and even in-unit laundry. AND my bedroom was the largest in the house. However, the washer was continually out of service, the backyard was plagued with rats late at night, and the house itself eventually became infested with mice. My landlord neglected the mice so long that they became bold enough to wander around in my bedroom in the middle of the day, as I sat there watching. Also, I had roommates who, at the time, spent a lot of nights at bars and brought home a lot of strangers.
I was relieved when I moved out of there and into my grad school apartment. It was the first apartment I had all to myself, and I was really excited about it! It was on the second floor of a three-unit building, and had its own entrance. The space was small but charming, with a staircase immediately when you walked in and cute loft area where I put my desk. Unfortunately, my pre-move-in tours neglected to reveal two key things. First, there was a vent between my kitchen and the kitchen in the apartment next door that allowed me to hear EVERY WORD my neighbors said, no matter where I was in the apartment. And I don’t mean murmuring – I heard everything with perfect clarity. Second, the living room was actually built outside of the building. It was once a porch but had been enclosed, which meant it was poorly insulated and unlivable in the winter. Once, I literally had to get in the shower to return the feeling to my feet.
After I finished my master’s, I moved into the studio where I live now, and sadly, this apartment is the worst of the bunch. The floor is uneven, so none of my furniture sits flat. The wiring is sketchy, so if I touch the lights on my ceiling fan they sometimes stop working. My mailbox is always left unlocked for no apparent reason. The speaker I’m supposed to use to talk to people buzzing to get in has never worked, and the maintenance guy flat-out told me he wouldn’t fix it. My toilet plugs about every tenth flush. And my refrigerator makes a very loud noise every time the cooling mechanism turns off. Although I am used to it now, it used to wake me up at night, and still makes visitors jump out of their skin.
It should come as no surprise that I’ve considered moving many times. Several things have stopped me in the past, though. First and foremost, I love my location. There is a Walgreens across the street, a grocery store 3 blocks away, and hundreds of other stores and restaurants within walking distance. I’m less than two blocks from the brown line, and less than ten blocks from the red line. There’s a bus that runs from two blocks away from my office to the corner right outside my apartment. I’ve got my whole life down to a science, living here, and I really like my neighborhood.
That’s the main reason I’ve resisted moving. There’s also the fact that the search for apartments is a giant pain, and the cost of hiring movers can be steep. Before this apartment, I had not lived in the same place for more than a year in seven years. Although this place has its faults, I’ve learned to make do, and I was tired of messing with the status quo. So for year, I put up with the uneven floors, unlocked mailbox, flickering lights, and noisy fridge without much complaint. Then I resigned a lease despite a rent increase, and thought I would be ok for another year. I’m six months into the new lease now, and I’ve started to think about moving again. I have plenty of reasons to do so, but I was dragging my feet on committing to it. After all, I don’t exactly have a great history with apartments, and how do I know the next one won’t be worse?
But after this week, I’m not sure it’s possible for the next one to be worse. Last Wednesday, I was home only briefly after work to change my clothes, and then I left for a speed workout. Afterward, at about 8:30 pm, I walked down the hall towards my apartment, looking forward to a relaxing few hours before bed. It was not to be.
When I opened the door, I heard water running in the kitchen. I had a fleeting thought that I may have left the tap on, but came around the corner to see water pouring out from under the sink. I shrieked and started messing with the valves, and luckily was able to at least stop the flow of water temporarily. There was over an inch of standing water in the cabinet under the sink, and maybe a quarter inch on the kitchen floor. The bag of recycling and the paper bags of cat food that were under the sink had almost disintegrated, and the cat herself? She was a little damp, and yowling as she looked at me disdainfully.
I called the maintenance guy, and he was there almost immediately, as he had already been fielding a call from the guy who lives below me, who had noticed water dripping into his apartment through the ceiling. (Though it’s not my fault, I feel a little bad about that.) The maintenance guy sopped up the standing water and did something to the valves that he thought would make them hold until morning, provided that I didn’t use the sink. He came back the next day to replace the valves.
It was not the mini-flood itself that got me thinking about moving again. Instead, it was a comment the maintenance guy muttered to himself as he fussed with the valves. As he knelt in the standing water, bracing himself for a potential drenching, he muttered, “This building is falling apart.”
He’s right, of course. The thing about all the problems with this building is that they are not isolated or unrelated. They are all marks of a decaying building that may be beyond saving at this point. Logic says to jump this ship before it sinks completely.
Even after all this, though, I considered staying. Even after all this, I resisted the thought of change and the pains of moving.
But finally, something happened that officially pushed me over the edge. At the beginning of the month, new neighbors (two younger guys) moved into the apartment next door. For the last three nights, they have come home from bars at three in the morning and proceeded to be irritatingly loud for at least an hour. I tolerated this reasonably well at first, as I had a lot of practice tuning out noise both with my first Chicago roommates and my grad school apartment’s thin walls.
Then I saw them. On Thursday evening, the new neighbors came in the back door and climbed the stairs toward their apartment as I was doing laundry in the stairwell area. I listened to them talking as they walked by, and their conversation centered around one of them doing his hair at 3 am and not being able to wake up the other, who had passed out drunk. (Wow. Lovely.)
I climbed the stairs to my apartment to find them standing outside theirs, fumbling to find their keys. As my opened my door and my cat meowed a greeting, I heard one of my new neighbors do a sarcastic, patronizing impression of her. I entered my apartment without looking at him and leaned against the closed door as I fumed. Drink til you pass out? Fine, it’s your life. Be a loud asshole on your way to doing so, waking up the whole building in the process? Fine. You’ll be kicked out if you keep it up and people complain. But make fun of my cat? You just crossed the line, buddy. You’re on my list.
It was at that moment, as I stood there leaning against the door, that I knew it was time to go. Not only is this building too old to live in, I’m too old to live in this building.
My apartments have always looked good on the surface. My first apartment in Chicago was on the first floor of a 2-flat house. It had a well-lit living room, a deck out back, and even in-unit laundry. AND my bedroom was the largest in the house. However, the washer was continually out of service, the backyard was plagued with rats late at night, and the house itself eventually became infested with mice. My landlord neglected the mice so long that they became bold enough to wander around in my bedroom in the middle of the day, as I sat there watching. Also, I had roommates who, at the time, spent a lot of nights at bars and brought home a lot of strangers.
I was relieved when I moved out of there and into my grad school apartment. It was the first apartment I had all to myself, and I was really excited about it! It was on the second floor of a three-unit building, and had its own entrance. The space was small but charming, with a staircase immediately when you walked in and cute loft area where I put my desk. Unfortunately, my pre-move-in tours neglected to reveal two key things. First, there was a vent between my kitchen and the kitchen in the apartment next door that allowed me to hear EVERY WORD my neighbors said, no matter where I was in the apartment. And I don’t mean murmuring – I heard everything with perfect clarity. Second, the living room was actually built outside of the building. It was once a porch but had been enclosed, which meant it was poorly insulated and unlivable in the winter. Once, I literally had to get in the shower to return the feeling to my feet.
After I finished my master’s, I moved into the studio where I live now, and sadly, this apartment is the worst of the bunch. The floor is uneven, so none of my furniture sits flat. The wiring is sketchy, so if I touch the lights on my ceiling fan they sometimes stop working. My mailbox is always left unlocked for no apparent reason. The speaker I’m supposed to use to talk to people buzzing to get in has never worked, and the maintenance guy flat-out told me he wouldn’t fix it. My toilet plugs about every tenth flush. And my refrigerator makes a very loud noise every time the cooling mechanism turns off. Although I am used to it now, it used to wake me up at night, and still makes visitors jump out of their skin.
It should come as no surprise that I’ve considered moving many times. Several things have stopped me in the past, though. First and foremost, I love my location. There is a Walgreens across the street, a grocery store 3 blocks away, and hundreds of other stores and restaurants within walking distance. I’m less than two blocks from the brown line, and less than ten blocks from the red line. There’s a bus that runs from two blocks away from my office to the corner right outside my apartment. I’ve got my whole life down to a science, living here, and I really like my neighborhood.
That’s the main reason I’ve resisted moving. There’s also the fact that the search for apartments is a giant pain, and the cost of hiring movers can be steep. Before this apartment, I had not lived in the same place for more than a year in seven years. Although this place has its faults, I’ve learned to make do, and I was tired of messing with the status quo. So for year, I put up with the uneven floors, unlocked mailbox, flickering lights, and noisy fridge without much complaint. Then I resigned a lease despite a rent increase, and thought I would be ok for another year. I’m six months into the new lease now, and I’ve started to think about moving again. I have plenty of reasons to do so, but I was dragging my feet on committing to it. After all, I don’t exactly have a great history with apartments, and how do I know the next one won’t be worse?
But after this week, I’m not sure it’s possible for the next one to be worse. Last Wednesday, I was home only briefly after work to change my clothes, and then I left for a speed workout. Afterward, at about 8:30 pm, I walked down the hall towards my apartment, looking forward to a relaxing few hours before bed. It was not to be.
When I opened the door, I heard water running in the kitchen. I had a fleeting thought that I may have left the tap on, but came around the corner to see water pouring out from under the sink. I shrieked and started messing with the valves, and luckily was able to at least stop the flow of water temporarily. There was over an inch of standing water in the cabinet under the sink, and maybe a quarter inch on the kitchen floor. The bag of recycling and the paper bags of cat food that were under the sink had almost disintegrated, and the cat herself? She was a little damp, and yowling as she looked at me disdainfully.
I called the maintenance guy, and he was there almost immediately, as he had already been fielding a call from the guy who lives below me, who had noticed water dripping into his apartment through the ceiling. (Though it’s not my fault, I feel a little bad about that.) The maintenance guy sopped up the standing water and did something to the valves that he thought would make them hold until morning, provided that I didn’t use the sink. He came back the next day to replace the valves.
It was not the mini-flood itself that got me thinking about moving again. Instead, it was a comment the maintenance guy muttered to himself as he fussed with the valves. As he knelt in the standing water, bracing himself for a potential drenching, he muttered, “This building is falling apart.”
He’s right, of course. The thing about all the problems with this building is that they are not isolated or unrelated. They are all marks of a decaying building that may be beyond saving at this point. Logic says to jump this ship before it sinks completely.
Even after all this, though, I considered staying. Even after all this, I resisted the thought of change and the pains of moving.
But finally, something happened that officially pushed me over the edge. At the beginning of the month, new neighbors (two younger guys) moved into the apartment next door. For the last three nights, they have come home from bars at three in the morning and proceeded to be irritatingly loud for at least an hour. I tolerated this reasonably well at first, as I had a lot of practice tuning out noise both with my first Chicago roommates and my grad school apartment’s thin walls.
Then I saw them. On Thursday evening, the new neighbors came in the back door and climbed the stairs toward their apartment as I was doing laundry in the stairwell area. I listened to them talking as they walked by, and their conversation centered around one of them doing his hair at 3 am and not being able to wake up the other, who had passed out drunk. (Wow. Lovely.)
I climbed the stairs to my apartment to find them standing outside theirs, fumbling to find their keys. As my opened my door and my cat meowed a greeting, I heard one of my new neighbors do a sarcastic, patronizing impression of her. I entered my apartment without looking at him and leaned against the closed door as I fumed. Drink til you pass out? Fine, it’s your life. Be a loud asshole on your way to doing so, waking up the whole building in the process? Fine. You’ll be kicked out if you keep it up and people complain. But make fun of my cat? You just crossed the line, buddy. You’re on my list.
It was at that moment, as I stood there leaning against the door, that I knew it was time to go. Not only is this building too old to live in, I’m too old to live in this building.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Yay, boo!
One of the small details I love learning about people is their catch phrase. You know what I’m talking about, right? It’s the word or phrase that a person uses all the time. There are two things I find particularly fascinating about this. First, people are often unaware of how much they use a phrase until someone else points it out. For instance, in recent months, I’ve taken to saying, “I know, right?” approximately every ten minutes. I didn’t realize it until my sister cursed me for causing her to start saying it, too. I balked, saying she couldn’t have picked it up from me. But now that I am paying attention, I realize that she is right. I say that all the time.
The second thing I find interesting about catch phrases is how well they can capture a person’s personality. For example, for a large part of my childhood, my mother continually used the phrase, “Far out!” Keep in mind that this was the 90s, not the 80s, so she was pretty much the only person on Earth who still said this. But I never found it embarrassing, because it just suited her somehow. One of the things I’ve always appreciated most about my mom is her unfailing enthusiasm. She can always be counted upon to be excited for me when I accomplish something, large or small, that is important to me. Her level of excitement can almost catch me off guard, actually, so saying “Far out!” always just seemed like an extension of surprise.
I’m always listening to pick up these catch phrases, and I must admit that because I am so attuned to them, I often start saying them myself. The most recent example of this is running rampant in my vocabulary, and it comes from one of my coworkers, Carla. I blame her for my recent affinity for booing.
That’s right, booing. When Carla does not approve of something, she boos it. It sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But it’s catchy because it’s so therapeutic! I encourage you to try it. As Carla would say, some things just need to be booed. Let me give you some examples.
Today is April 11, the day before Easter. April means spring. Spring means at least a little warmth. Yet last night and this morning, whenever I was outside and the wind blew, it felt below freezing. My hands went numb, and I needed to be wearing my down winter coat. Know what I say to that? Boo wind! C’mon. I know you agree. Go ahead and say it, out loud. Boo wind! Boo cold weather! Boooo!
Earlier today, in an effort to escape the crappy weather, I was standing on the el platform and waiting for a brown line. A green line came by. I waited another ten minutes or so, then another train appeared in the distance. As it approached, I realized it was another green line! Two greens in a row? Boo green line! Boo CTA!
I have a coupon for $1.00 off a box of Celestial Seasonings tea. It expires soon, so on Thursday I took it to Walgreens. I’m not super picky about the flavors of tea I drink. I’m partial to apple cinnamon and peppermint, but I’m willing to try a lot of different things. However, when I arrived at Walgreens, I discovered that they had ONE kind of Celestial Seasonings tea. And what was the one flavor? DECAF GREEN TEA. Seriously? Boo Walgreens!
I recently incurred a rather bad running injury to my hip. When I went to an injury screening, the therapist told me it could either be a stress fracture or a strain of my psoas muscle (one of the hip flexors). I was rooting for a muscle injury, because it would mean taking less time off running. At this point, I’ve become convinced it’s my psoas, because the pain is worst when I get up in the morning, not after I exercise. At first I was glad about this. Yay psoas! But despite barely running in the past two weeks, the strain doesn’t seem to be getting any better. It actually hurts just as much when I sit around all day as when I run, and it looks like my recovery is going to be long. So, yes, yay not stress fracture, but not yay psoas. Boo psoas!
After I finished grad school but before I found a full-time job, I did some freelance work. I used to work at the company I was freelancing for, so I was unable to use my social security number as a freelance ID. Instead, I used an employer identification number. While filling out the forms to get this number, I made one error: I wrote a 1 instead of a 0 on the line that asked how many employees I had (I thought I was employing myself, but I really wasn’t). Because of this, I ended up paying taxes on my freelance income twice, then having to request a refund that took forever. I also had months of correspondence with the IRS, trying to get that one error corrected so that I wouldn’t requests to file forms I didn’t really have to file. Finally, in December, over a year after I used the ID number, I thought I had the whole mess straightened out. However, yesterday I received a letter from the Illinois government saying the Feds told them I reported that freelance income to the national government but not Illinois. I am not certain, but I believe that is a lie, and this is still a result of me writing a 1 instead of a 0. Monday I am certain to be on the phone for a hour trying to figure it out. Boo bureaucracy! Boo government’s inability to correct a tiny error in the eighteen months since it occurred! BOOOOOO!
See? Carla’s right. Some things just need to be booed. It might seem unkind to say Carla’s catch phrase is descriptive of her personality, but it really is, and not in a negative way. Carla tells you what you thinks, and I admire that.
Feel free to leave a comment about something you think needs booing. I bet you’ll feel better!
The second thing I find interesting about catch phrases is how well they can capture a person’s personality. For example, for a large part of my childhood, my mother continually used the phrase, “Far out!” Keep in mind that this was the 90s, not the 80s, so she was pretty much the only person on Earth who still said this. But I never found it embarrassing, because it just suited her somehow. One of the things I’ve always appreciated most about my mom is her unfailing enthusiasm. She can always be counted upon to be excited for me when I accomplish something, large or small, that is important to me. Her level of excitement can almost catch me off guard, actually, so saying “Far out!” always just seemed like an extension of surprise.
I’m always listening to pick up these catch phrases, and I must admit that because I am so attuned to them, I often start saying them myself. The most recent example of this is running rampant in my vocabulary, and it comes from one of my coworkers, Carla. I blame her for my recent affinity for booing.
That’s right, booing. When Carla does not approve of something, she boos it. It sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But it’s catchy because it’s so therapeutic! I encourage you to try it. As Carla would say, some things just need to be booed. Let me give you some examples.
Today is April 11, the day before Easter. April means spring. Spring means at least a little warmth. Yet last night and this morning, whenever I was outside and the wind blew, it felt below freezing. My hands went numb, and I needed to be wearing my down winter coat. Know what I say to that? Boo wind! C’mon. I know you agree. Go ahead and say it, out loud. Boo wind! Boo cold weather! Boooo!
Earlier today, in an effort to escape the crappy weather, I was standing on the el platform and waiting for a brown line. A green line came by. I waited another ten minutes or so, then another train appeared in the distance. As it approached, I realized it was another green line! Two greens in a row? Boo green line! Boo CTA!
I have a coupon for $1.00 off a box of Celestial Seasonings tea. It expires soon, so on Thursday I took it to Walgreens. I’m not super picky about the flavors of tea I drink. I’m partial to apple cinnamon and peppermint, but I’m willing to try a lot of different things. However, when I arrived at Walgreens, I discovered that they had ONE kind of Celestial Seasonings tea. And what was the one flavor? DECAF GREEN TEA. Seriously? Boo Walgreens!
I recently incurred a rather bad running injury to my hip. When I went to an injury screening, the therapist told me it could either be a stress fracture or a strain of my psoas muscle (one of the hip flexors). I was rooting for a muscle injury, because it would mean taking less time off running. At this point, I’ve become convinced it’s my psoas, because the pain is worst when I get up in the morning, not after I exercise. At first I was glad about this. Yay psoas! But despite barely running in the past two weeks, the strain doesn’t seem to be getting any better. It actually hurts just as much when I sit around all day as when I run, and it looks like my recovery is going to be long. So, yes, yay not stress fracture, but not yay psoas. Boo psoas!
After I finished grad school but before I found a full-time job, I did some freelance work. I used to work at the company I was freelancing for, so I was unable to use my social security number as a freelance ID. Instead, I used an employer identification number. While filling out the forms to get this number, I made one error: I wrote a 1 instead of a 0 on the line that asked how many employees I had (I thought I was employing myself, but I really wasn’t). Because of this, I ended up paying taxes on my freelance income twice, then having to request a refund that took forever. I also had months of correspondence with the IRS, trying to get that one error corrected so that I wouldn’t requests to file forms I didn’t really have to file. Finally, in December, over a year after I used the ID number, I thought I had the whole mess straightened out. However, yesterday I received a letter from the Illinois government saying the Feds told them I reported that freelance income to the national government but not Illinois. I am not certain, but I believe that is a lie, and this is still a result of me writing a 1 instead of a 0. Monday I am certain to be on the phone for a hour trying to figure it out. Boo bureaucracy! Boo government’s inability to correct a tiny error in the eighteen months since it occurred! BOOOOOO!
See? Carla’s right. Some things just need to be booed. It might seem unkind to say Carla’s catch phrase is descriptive of her personality, but it really is, and not in a negative way. Carla tells you what you thinks, and I admire that.
Feel free to leave a comment about something you think needs booing. I bet you’ll feel better!
Friday, April 03, 2009
Let the games begin...
Today’s commute started out like any other. I bundled up against the cold, left my apartment building, climbed the steps to the el platform, boarded the train, and proceeded to read my paper, completely ignoring everyone and everything going on around me. It really is amazing the way I tune everything out. My oldest friend could sit down next to me and I would not notice. (Actually, once I did ride for 20 minutes sitting next to someone I know and didn’t realize it.) I just never look up, and I definitely never look out the window.
But today, I did happen to glance up and out the window, and to my surprise, I found that I couldn’t look away. We were just crossing the north branch of the river. A slight wind agitated the surface of the blue-green water, giving it a textured look. A morning mist hung over the bridges and buildings. Cars and people and boats moved along their way, making the scene look alive. There was Chicago, in all her urban splendor. And her beauty took my breath away.
I have these moments now and again, moments that remind me how lucky I am to be living here and how much I love this city. Every time I am caught off guard this way, I feel a bit guilty for having become so jaded. I’m grateful for these moments that remind me what it was like to see Chicago for the first time instead of the thousandth.
This particular episode got me thinking even more, though, because as the train crossed the river, my eyes fell on a banner spanning one of the bridges. It showed the gigantic arm span of a swimmer and was emblazoned with one word: IMAGINE. The banner was put up to promote Chicago’s bid for the 2016 Olympic Games as the International Olympic Committee visits the city this week.
From the moment we started vying for it, I’ve been against the Olympic bid. In fact, I thought it was somewhat of a joke. After all, our public transportation system is barely maintaining itself when all it has to transport is its regular load of commuters and tourists. How would we ever move the tens of thousands of athletes and spectators that the Olympics would draw? Four out of our last eight governors have been corrupt. How could we be trusted to handle the affairs of the entire world, even for a few weeks? Both the city and the state are in a constant budget crisis and we already have the highest taxes in the nation. How could we possibly finance the construction projects that hosting the games would require? Not to mention the whole issue of having to displace hundreds of low-income Chicago residents to house the athletes.
The bid just didn’t make sense to me. It seemed that even if the logistics could be worked out, it would still mean that for two weeks or more, it would be next to impossible for me to get anywhere on public transportation, and for who knows how long, I would be paying even more taxes than I do now. And sure, the Olympics would be here, but the chances I would have the opportunity or the money to actually see anything seemed slim. No, I just couldn’t bring myself to support the Olympic bid.
But things changed this morning. I admit that when I glanced up and saw Chicago as if for the first time, I also fell for the 2016 advertising scheme. I looked at that banner, and I IMAGINED. I imagined not what a Chicago Olympic games would be like not for me, but for all the athletes that would come here to represent their countries. Most of them will have never been here before, and I imagined that they would see Chicago the way I saw it this morning. I imagined that the beauty and power of this city would catch them off guard. And I imagined that they would smile and take in the moment, creating a memory that they would carry home with them later.
Suddenly I saw the Olympics as a way to share my love of this city with the world. I realized that a visit to Chicago could give the world’s athletes the memorable and awesome experience that those with their kind of dedication and passion deserve. I really believe that. This city has its problems, but at its core is a beauty that the world should see.
My concerns about the bid still remain, and I confess that if we do not win the bid, a large part of me will be relieved.
But deep down, I am rooting for Chicago, and a different part of me will be disappointed if we don’t get the games. They may make my life harder for a few weeks (or much, much longer), but they could also inspire the city as a whole to become a better place and inspire me to stop taking Chicago for granted.
But today, I did happen to glance up and out the window, and to my surprise, I found that I couldn’t look away. We were just crossing the north branch of the river. A slight wind agitated the surface of the blue-green water, giving it a textured look. A morning mist hung over the bridges and buildings. Cars and people and boats moved along their way, making the scene look alive. There was Chicago, in all her urban splendor. And her beauty took my breath away.
I have these moments now and again, moments that remind me how lucky I am to be living here and how much I love this city. Every time I am caught off guard this way, I feel a bit guilty for having become so jaded. I’m grateful for these moments that remind me what it was like to see Chicago for the first time instead of the thousandth.
This particular episode got me thinking even more, though, because as the train crossed the river, my eyes fell on a banner spanning one of the bridges. It showed the gigantic arm span of a swimmer and was emblazoned with one word: IMAGINE. The banner was put up to promote Chicago’s bid for the 2016 Olympic Games as the International Olympic Committee visits the city this week.
From the moment we started vying for it, I’ve been against the Olympic bid. In fact, I thought it was somewhat of a joke. After all, our public transportation system is barely maintaining itself when all it has to transport is its regular load of commuters and tourists. How would we ever move the tens of thousands of athletes and spectators that the Olympics would draw? Four out of our last eight governors have been corrupt. How could we be trusted to handle the affairs of the entire world, even for a few weeks? Both the city and the state are in a constant budget crisis and we already have the highest taxes in the nation. How could we possibly finance the construction projects that hosting the games would require? Not to mention the whole issue of having to displace hundreds of low-income Chicago residents to house the athletes.
The bid just didn’t make sense to me. It seemed that even if the logistics could be worked out, it would still mean that for two weeks or more, it would be next to impossible for me to get anywhere on public transportation, and for who knows how long, I would be paying even more taxes than I do now. And sure, the Olympics would be here, but the chances I would have the opportunity or the money to actually see anything seemed slim. No, I just couldn’t bring myself to support the Olympic bid.
But things changed this morning. I admit that when I glanced up and saw Chicago as if for the first time, I also fell for the 2016 advertising scheme. I looked at that banner, and I IMAGINED. I imagined not what a Chicago Olympic games would be like not for me, but for all the athletes that would come here to represent their countries. Most of them will have never been here before, and I imagined that they would see Chicago the way I saw it this morning. I imagined that the beauty and power of this city would catch them off guard. And I imagined that they would smile and take in the moment, creating a memory that they would carry home with them later.
Suddenly I saw the Olympics as a way to share my love of this city with the world. I realized that a visit to Chicago could give the world’s athletes the memorable and awesome experience that those with their kind of dedication and passion deserve. I really believe that. This city has its problems, but at its core is a beauty that the world should see.
My concerns about the bid still remain, and I confess that if we do not win the bid, a large part of me will be relieved.
But deep down, I am rooting for Chicago, and a different part of me will be disappointed if we don’t get the games. They may make my life harder for a few weeks (or much, much longer), but they could also inspire the city as a whole to become a better place and inspire me to stop taking Chicago for granted.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)