Challenger Mission, Part III

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.

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..)

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.

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.

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!

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.

A Crossover Piece

Well folks, tomorrow is my first running race of the 2009 season. It will be March 29, and because I am also lucky enough to live in fickle Chicago, it will also be snowing, windy, and barely 30 degrees. (Sigh.)

Still, I am excited. My love for running has grown this year as I’ve taken the time to find things I love to do. I’m on a racing team with a local running store, and my goal for the season is to finish the half-marathon on August 2.

Because running is on my mind so much lately, last week I decided to start a new blog dedicated to my running. I wanted it to be separate from this one so I could feel free to post in it in short bursts, whenever I am inspired to do so. It’s been working for me so far. In case you’re interested in reading about my running pursuits, I’ve posted a link to my running blog on the right side of the screen. (As an aside, I must say I’m kind of proud of myself for figuring out how to do that. Is that sad?)

In the future, I am going to try to keep these two blogs separate, but in honor of the start of what I hope will be an exciting and gratifying racing season, I’m writing a “crossover episode” today. You’ll notice that the title of my running blog is, “The Energizer Katie.” Today I thought I’d tell the story of why I chose that title. Shamelessly, I’m hoping this might prod you into reading my running blog, or even better, into coming out and supporting me in a race someday. Enjoy!

When I first started running, my daily distance was only two miles. Actually, my first route was a one-mile loop that I completed twice, just in case I felt I couldn’t go on after one mile. Eventually I changed my route to a two-mile loop, and this seemed to make the two miles go by faster. This was all during my first year in Chicago, when I lived in Lakeview.

When I moved to Evanston, I mapped out another two-mile loop and ran it religiously, every single morning. I never tried to go farther or even had ambitions to do so. But then I started to talk to my mom more about running, and I remembered that she and my sister had run 5K races in the past. 5K is just over three miles. On a whim, one day I got to the end of my two-mile loop, and just kept going. I ran a smaller loop that felt like it might be an additional mile, then eagerly went home and mapped it out with the g-map pedometer. It was almost exactly 5K, and I had done it without much of a struggle at all! I called my mom immediately and excitedly told her I had just run 5K. (It was the first of a lot of phone calls my mom and I have had over the years about our running.)

You would think that so easily adding a mile to my distance would make me want to add more. But you would be wrong. I was quite satisfied with that distance. Because 5K is typically the shortest race distance (unless you accidentally enter a kids dash the way my mom and sister did once!), I felt being able run 5K officially made me a runner. And that was good enough for me.

I ran in my first 5K race the following spring, and was tickled pink to finish it in under 30 minutes. I dutifully kept up with my schedule of running 5K five times a week, and I ran a race about once a month. And my race times continued to inch downward. 29:39 in April. 29:08 in May. 28:56 in early June. 28:02 at the end of June. Then, on the 4th of July, I ran a 5K in Frankenmuth, MI with my mother, and scored an amazing time of 27:37. That’s under a 9-minute mile pace.

I had a feeling that I had reached some sort of limit, though, because I felt unwell for a few minutes at the end of the race. I had pushed it hard enough that I didn’t really enjoy it. I just wanted it to end. And I didn’t want running to be like that. And sure enough, during my next race, I made sure not to push myself beyond my limits, and for the first time I did not score a personal record time. I finished in 29:04. Still good, but my golden age was over.

So, I thought to myself. Now what? I didn’t think pushing my speed was a good idea any more, so I needed a new goal. The logical choice was to try to increase my distance. So, I went out one Saturday intending to attempt to run 8K. This was the next-longest common race distance, and I just wanted to see what it would feel like. I decided to complete 8K by running my regular 5K loop, then starting it over again and turning toward home sooner than usual on the second lap.

I ran the first lap. I started the second. And then when I got to the place I intended to turn, I realized that I was still feeling pretty good. I had a choice. I could turn home now and be satisfied with 8K, or I could keep on my regular route and see what happened. After all, I reasoned. I can stop any time I need to and walk. So I didn’t turn. I kept going.

When I reached the 8K point on the route, I asked myself what I wanted to do. Walk the rest of the lap, or keep running? Just keep running, I thought. Just keep running.

So I did. I kept running and running and running, and eventually I found myself at the end of the loop again. I had just run 10K. Naturally, I called my mom to brag. She asked me how I pushed myself to go farther. “I don’t know, really,” I said. “I just kept going.”

All this happened last summer. I finished out my racing season with one 8K race and one 10K race. All in all, it was a really good season for me. My last big event was to volunteer at the Chicago marathon, handing out Gatorade. It was a lot of fun, and seeing people of all ages, shapes, and sizes running the ultimate distance made me realize that I could do so someday, too, if I wanted to.

So, this year I set my sights on the half-marathon, and I’ve been working on increasing my distance. One Tuesday, we had amazing weather, and I took to the lakefront path and ran 7 miles, which is 0.8 miles longer than a 10K, the farthest I had ever run before. Four days later, on Saturday, I attempted to run 8 miles, just to see if I could. Attempted and succeeded. That was a week ago.

I haven’t tried to go farther this week, mostly because I have been focused on getting ready for the race tomorrow, which is only 5 miles. But believe me, I’ve been bragging about my 8-miler. One of my friends asked me how I got up to 8. Just like when my mom asked me how I got to 10K, I didn’t know what to tell her. “I just set out to run it, and I did. Any time I considered stopping, I just decided not to.”

“But whenever I run, I just want it to end,” she answered. “I can never seem to force myself to keep going. How do you do it?”

I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know. If you just keep running, you eventually get to the distance you set out for, and it is over faster than you think. I don’t have any big secret. I just keep going.”

There you have it. That sentence is the crux of my whole running philosophy. How did I go from 2 miles to 5K? I just kept going. How did I get from 5K to 10K? I just kept going. How did I run 7 miles, and then 8? I just. Kept. Going.

It’s what I do. I keep going. And going. And going.

And that’s why I’m The Energizer Katie. Check me out sometime.

California dreams, Chicago realities

Last week, I was lucky enough to spend five days in sunny southern California, visiting one of my best friends from undergrad. It was a great trip. I had never been to the west coast, and I was able to see the Santa Monica Pier, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and the beautiful mountains of Malibu. Even better, I was able to walk around without a coat, go running in a tank top along the beach, and even (gasp!) wear sunglasses! I had been looking forward to getting away for months, and the trip didn’t disappoint. Time to relax, time in the sun, and time spent with old friends were three things I had really needed.

But the trip also affected me in a way that I didn’t expect. During my last full day there, an additional friend from college drove up from San Diego and the three of us – me, the friend I was staying with (Vanessa), and the friend who drove in (Stephen) – went out to lunch, on a long walk, and out to dinner, accompanied by Stephen’s girlfriend.

I had not seen Stephen in almost two years, and I had not seen Vanessa in almost three. But that day, it was like it had only been a few days. Although we spent a lot of time telling each other about our jobs, families, pets, and roommates, we also spent a lot of time reminiscing. We brought up jokes and stories that were six or seven years old. We laughed, we teased, and we feigned offense, just like we did when we all lived in the same 6-unit apartment building nearly four years ago. It was easy, effortless, and comfortable, and I enjoyed myself immensely. I did feel a little bit guilty that Stephen’s girlfriend could not join in the reminiscing, but Vanessa and I tried make up for that by telling as many embarrassing stories about Stephen as we could remember. (Believe me, we know a lot of them!)

It really was blissful. In fact, it wasn’t until several hours into the visit that I had any sad or painful emotions at all. But then, both Stephen and Vanessa made comments that caught me completely off guard. Without prelude, Vanessa said something along the lines of, “Katie, I think you should just move here.” I flinched, not sure how to respond. I said, “If only it were that simple.” I hoped that would be the end of it, but then Stephen jumped in. “Come on, Katie. What does Chicago really do better than SoCal?” They looked at me expectantly, and the next thing that came out of my mouth surprised me. “It’s not that I don’t miss you. But honestly, I don’t know if I could be happy here permanently.” They asked why, and I stuttered through a rather incoherent response about crazy people wearing boots in 60-degree weather (or something equally lame). Then I changed the subject.

For the next couple of hours, up until the point that Stephen left, a range of emotions coursed through me. First and foremost, there was gratitude and love for my two old friends. As uncomfortable as that moment was, it showed me that they wanted me nearby. Even though years had passed between visits, there was no awkwardness between us, and they sensed how great it would be to be together again. It wasn’t until then that it even occurred to me that things could have been awkward. Sometimes, people change in ways you don’t expect, and friendships that once were rock solid suddenly have no foundation. But there was none of that. And it didn’t occur to me to be thankful for that until after they asked me to move.

But the happiness was bittersweet because deep down, I knew I’d never be moving to California. It wasn’t for the reasons I expected, though. There are the obvious reasons, of course. My life is established here. I have a job that I love and an ever-widening circle of friends. I have volunteer responsibilities that would be hard to walk away from, and my monthly budget definitely does not have a surplus that would handle a long-distance move. Not to mention the fact that now is the worst time in my lifetime to give up a job to look for another.

But it was not any of those things that provided the definitive answer. I did think about all of them, and I knew they’d all present difficulties. However, I also knew that there were ways around all of them. If I had good enough reasons, I could break all those barriers and move to Santa Monica or San Diego. And all the thoughts of comfort, love, and gratitude I was feeling toward Stephen and Vanessa were good enough reasons. I had the same sense they did – that somehow, life would just be better if they were closer to me.

Despite that, though, I struggled with another truth: the truth that had come out of my mouth before I even realized it. I would not be happy living here permanently. Don’t get me wrong. I loved Santa Monica. I hate winter, and there, I could almost escape it completely. I love the sun, and there I could have it year-round. And I love experiencing new things, so I was not afraid of adjusting to a new environment. But even in the few days I spent there, I knew it was not where I belonged.

Chicago is where I belong. I become more and more certain of that every day. The more I learn about myself in these formative years as a twentysomething, the more I am amazed at how well this city suits me.

I don’t like driving. I never really did. It’s stressed me out since the first day of driver’s training. Here, I don’t have to drive unless I’m leaving the city. I can walk to at least half the places I need to go regularly, and take public transportation to the rest. There, I would have to drive almost anywhere I went.

I do well living by myself. There are benefits to having roommates, but mostly, I find that living alone relieves some of the social pressure from my angst-ridden mind. It’s not that I hide out in here. In fact, sometimes I think that I am gone so often that it’s unfair to my cat. But when I lived with roommates, I always worried what they would think about what time I went to bed, how long I took in the shower, what I watched on TV, and what I ate for dinner. I shouldn’t care what they think, but the truth is that I do. It’s a part of my social anxiety that I’ve accepted and had to learn to control. And living alone really helps with that. Here, I can afford to do so, even if it means settling for 350 square feet in a poorly maintained building. There, I wouldn’t be able to afford it. After the discussions I had with Vanessa about housing costs, I’m certain there would be no chance.

I love exploring and discovering new things. This city is made for that. There are restaurants above apartments, apartments above retail stores, and tiny shops that can only be entered from an alley. The sea of skyscrapers here hides a thousand secrets waiting to be discovered, and I always know that I can fill an empty day with a walk of discovery. In Santa Monica, the buildings are lower and the city seems more zoned than Chicago. Residences here, commercial spaces there. Life there just wouldn’t seem like the never-ending game it seems like here.

These are only three of a lot of reasons I don’t think I would be happy in Santa Monica. While I know that they are colored by some biases, I know there is truth at the heart of them. A piece of me wants to move to the west coast, if for no other reason, to be around Vanessa more. And I think she knows that – if only by the tears that welled up in my eyes as I tried to explain this to her as we stood in the checkout line waiting to buy the chocolate cake and ice cream we planned to eat to say farewell to my time in Cali. As I’ve thought about this more over the last week, I also realize I’ve felt this way every time I go back to Michigan to visit my parents. A piece of me desperately wants to be closer to them, and I can’t describe how much I miss my mom and dad on a day-to-day basis. But I don’t belong in Bay City. And I think they know that, too.

So I guess my purpose in writing this was to tell Vanessa and Stephen, and my parents, that I do love them, and there are days when I do want to move closer to them. But please be content in knowing that I am certain that I am where I am supposed to be, and I am happy. I’d love for you to move here, too. But only if you’re sure it’s where you belong.

No matter where you are, I’ll still be here, still be me, and still be there when you need me.

Remixing to the Max

**A brief prelude: I will be in sunny California later this week (woo!), so I am posting early this week. I’m pressed for time and so this may be uncharacteristically brief, but I’m determined to stick to my one post a week resolution. Enjoy!**

I consider myself a woman of many talents. Cooking is not one of them.

The circumstances in which I found this out were rather extenuating. The first time in my life I had to regularly cook for myself was while I was studying abroad in Sweden, and therefore my first serious shopping trips were to stores where I could not read the labels on the food. This led to trouble from the beginning; on my first try, I accidentally bought some horsemeat.

Things did improve from there a bit – I learned to stick to what I know and mastered most of the Swedish food vocabulary. I remember distinctly the first time I tried to make a real meal. It consisted of chopped potatoes that I cooked in the microwave, covered in browned hamburger meat, and topped off with some cheese, chopped tomatoes, and salt and pepper. It was rather bland, but edible, and I dubbed the dish “Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook.” It made many appearances during my time abroad, but it never got any fancier. For over five months, I survived on this dish, pasta, ham sandwiches, and frozen meatballs.

My return to the states was a relief in the food department, and over the past few years, I have honed my cooking skills a bit. I started out following recipes to the letter. My first roommate in Chicago used to make fun of my extensive use of measuring cups. I left nothing to chance. I eventually loosened up a bit, writing notes in my cookbooks about how I thought the recipe could be tweaked or improved. I graduated from a four-ingredient cookbook to a full-fledged “What’s For Dinner?” book, and even dabbled in grilling and slow-cooking. (In fact, I ADORED my crock pot.)

Everything usually turned out ok, but nothing was gourmet by any means. There was nothing I did particularly well, nothing I would repeatedly make for company. Many people have at least one signature dish that they always fall back on; my mother has her chicken and stuffing casserole, and my former roommate has her chili or lasagna. But I had no signature and didn’t expect to ever have one. I’d be better off taking company out to dinner.

So, I just stuck to my recipes. For a very, very long time, I was completely dependent on them. I didn’t know any by memory, and never really tried putting things together unless some book told me to do so. But now that I live on my own, there are occasions when I find myself with a bunch of random ingredients in my cupboard that need using. I’ve been trying lately to just put them together in ways that sound good and see what happens.

For instance, a few weeks ago I had half a box of rice, a pound of hamburger, and some ranch seasoning mix. When I went to the grocery store, I bought a can of diced tomatoes and peppers. I browned the hamburger with the ranch mix, let it simmer with the tomatoes, and served it over the rice with some snow peas on the side. It didn’t have the most appetizing look, but it tasted fine, and even had a little more kick than most of the things I make. I was quite satisfied and maybe a little proud as I ate it.

As I reheated a portion of the dish a few days later, something occurred to me. I stared down at the plate and thought to myself, oh good Lord, you know what this is? I began to laugh. It’s Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook: The Remix. It is! Swap out the microwaved potatoes for some brown rice, and the salt and pepper for some ranch seasoning mix, and it’s the exact same dish, just classed up a bit.

Truthfully, I would never serve Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook to company, not even in it’s remix form. But who knows. Maybe someday I will have a signature dish after all.

Self-Conscious (in a good way)

In January, I joined the racing team sponsored by one of Chicago’s chains of running stores. There are lots of great benefits associated with it: running gear, organized fun runs, discounts on race registrations, a couple of magazine subscriptions, and chances to test out new merchandise. But there was one perk in particular that sold me on joining the team: weekly speed workouts with a professional trainer.

I knew these workouts would be very beneficial for me. Despite the fact that I ran 8 races last summer, doubled my race length, and took a full minute off my mile time, one sad truth remains: I really know nothing about running. I know nothing about the benefits of cross training, speed bursts, or long versus short runs. My goal this season is to finish the rock and roll half-marathon on August 2 – an ambitious goal to say the least – and I’ve already pushed the limits of what I can do on my own. I knew I needed help, and these speed workouts seemed like a good start. So, I told myself that I’d wait out the coldest months, then start going to the weekly Wednesday night sessions starting in March.

As March grew closer, I became more and more nervous, and I was forced to confront the fact that despite my enthusiasm, deep down I was terrified. A big piece of me really wanted to go to the speed workouts, but all I could think about was the very real possibility that I would be the slowest runner present, or worse, that what I would be asked to do would be beyond my abilities altogether. So I knew that I willing myself to go would be no small thing.

When I left work yesterday, I began chanting to myself, I will go to speed training. I will go to speed training. I changed into my running clothes and soon as I got home, and left early, knowing that if I waited around I might use the possibility of being late as an excuse to not go. After a short period of waiting at the store, finally we took off on our warm up run to the training site (a parking lot about a mile away), and I felt a bit better. I was there, and on my way, and no matter how bad it was, it would be over in an hour.

Sad to say, that cheeriness didn’t last long. As I followed the other team members to the parking lot, I found that I could barely keep up with their warm-up pace. I instantly felt conspicuous and self-conscious. Oh God, I thought. I am out of my league. This is going to be embarrassing. They all must be wondering what I think I am doing here. I finished the warm up a couple hundred feet behind everyone else, wondering whether I should just leave now. But I didn’t. I stuck it out, and I am SO glad that I did.

Once at the training site, we met up with the coach, who explained the first task. Start at this lamppost. For a third of the distance to the next lamppost, crabwalk facing one direction. For the second third, crabwalk facing the other direction. For the last third, run backward. Then sprint the whole distance back (maybe 75 m?) at a pace faster than your 5K pace. Repeat four times.

And, we were off. I fully admit that even in this funny running style, I was the slowest one there, by far. But you know what? I was having so much fun doing that drill that I barely noticed. There were a few super serious people there who did the drills with intense scowls on their faces, but most other people were laughing at themselves, just like me. My nerves faded.

When everyone was finished, the coach explained the second, more lengthy, and much more ambitious part of the workout. Run, at a challenging pace, down to the second stop sign (200 m). Let your heart rate recover to about 120 beats per minute. Then run back and do another recovery. Run one more 200 m stretch, then jog onto the cement path and turn right. Run aggressively up the hill to the Grant statue, then jog back down at an easy pace. Run up and jog down two more times. Then jog back to the parking lot and run another 200 m back to the starting point.

That sounded ambitious enough for me, but you’ll never guess what he said after that…. “That’s one set. Do that three times.” Oy.

I had a feeling I would only be able to finish two sets in the time it took everyone else to finish three, but I gave it a shot anyway. My 200 m sprints were indeed the slowest, by a noticeable margin, but my recoveries were shorter, so I was able to finish the first set of 200 m sprints only a minute or two behind. The hill was another story, however. I’ve really never run on hills, and after running up two times, I was hurting, and I fell further behind. Just like that, I became very self-conscious again. I had yet to talk to anyone – people seemed to all know each other and not be interesting in socializing much – and as I started my way up the hill the third time, I wondered if anyone would notice if I only did two sets. But then, as the rest of the group passed me, on their way down as I still was working my way up, one woman about my age smiled at me and said, “Nice job.”

I don’t know why, but this reinvigorated me. I reached the top of the hill, jogged back down, and sprinted the last 200 m, telling myself that I would finish three sets even if everyone else left before I was finished. When I crossed the makeshift finish line, someone else asked me how I was doing. I said, “Oh, I’m great. I’m just slow, so don’t mind me.” She smiled and said, “I always like to say that we’re faster than the people that don’t come.” Touche.

I was most struck, though, that she used the word “we.” Perhaps they didn’t see me as beneath them. Maybe I was the only one who saw myself that way.

I’m proud to say that I did finish all three of my sets, chatting with the group of ladies that I was closest to keeping up with at each of the recoveries. I learned their names and got a few tips, and I was really touched when, as they passed me on the last hill, they told me they’d wait for me at the top so I wouldn’t have to run back to the store alone. They were completely friendly, encouraging, and nonjudgmental. They treated me as an equal, and I was and still am very grateful to them.

We jogged back to the store, and then I walked to the train smiling from ear to ear. It looks like this racing team is going to be everything I hoped it could be. I was a bit stiff all day today, and especially after running an 8K after work, I must admit that there are some choice muscle groups that are quite sore. But I finished. I did everything the coach asked me to do, and I met some really nice people to boot. And I’m so proud of myself that I can barely stand it.

I’ll be out of town next Wednesday (in California, woo!), but I’m looking forward to returning to speed training after that. Yes, I was the slowest one there. But I had such a good time that I hardly even care. And after my experience yesterday, I believe I will get faster, as long as I keep working. I owe all that to the group of runners that took the time to notice how hard I was working and encourage me. Thanks to them, I’m a new kind of self-conscious now – conscious of my potential instead of my inexperience.

It’s a good way to be.

Just call me Lady MacGiver.

You know the sinking feeling you get in your stomach at the moment you realize you’ve done something both stupid and irreversible? I had the displeasure of experiencing that feeling at about 8:00 last night.

Every other Thursday, I lead a team of volunteers in packing 100 bags of groceries to be distributed to the needy on Friday morning. We pack the bags in the meeting space of a church. If we are the last group to leave the building, it’s my responsibility to lock up using a key I have checked out from the parish office.

Such was the situation last night. After all my volunteers left, I diligently locked the pantry room and the back door, turned out the lights, and walked out the front door. Since the parish office is usually closed by the time we finish, I return the key by dropping it through the mail slot. It was right after I dropped the key through the slot last night that I realized I had not locked the front door of the church. It was also at this moment that it started pouring. It was like something out of a movie. In a bad way.

So, there I was. I was at a complete loss of what to do. Part of me wanted to just walk away. After all, what could I really do? But as I looked through the window of the unlocked door at the hundreds of dollars of groceries we had just bagged, I couldn’t bear the thought of the people who would come looking for them tomorrow being turned away because they had been taken. I had to do something.

I started by going back to the office and ringing the door bell. There was a slim chance that someone was still working inside. But no one came to the door. Then I spent a few minutes trying to reach the key through the mail slot, both with my hand and with several thinner objects. No dice. I couldn’t even see exactly where the key was, so it was really a hopeless endeavor. Then, on a whim, I tried the door. Could it be that someone else had the same slip of the mind as me, and left this door open? Nope. I was the only idiot on duty last night.

At this point I declared the key a lost cause and returned to the church. I couldn’t get the key, but what else could I do? I examined the lock itself carefully and flirted with the idea of trying to turn it without the key. But the doors on the church are pretty new and the locks are in mint condition. The last thing I needed was to do permanent damage to something.

I stood staring for a minute, almost ready to just walk away and hope for the best. But then it occurred to me that the door didn’t have to be locked so much as it just had to be un-open-able. Was there some other way to keep it closed? You have to pull the door to open it from the outside, so bracing something against it on the inside was not going to work. I thought about wedging something underneath it, but again, it would have to be on the outside to work.

After more minutes of standing and staring than I care to admit, I had a flash of insight. I was dealing with a set of double doors, and only one was unlocked. So if I could figure out a way to attach the unlocked door to the locked one, that would do the job.

I dug around in my bag for something I could use to tie the handles together, but anything I found was much too flimsy to do any good. I looked at the doors some more. Both doors had thin metal bars running vertically from top to bottom, near the place where the doors meet. The bars were part of the locking system, and there was a centimeter or two of space between the doors and the bars. If I could find something thin and stiff to place behind both bars, it should keep the unlocked door from being opened.

I didn’t have anything fitting that description in my bag, so I went back into the church to look around. It only took a moment to see my salvation: a large coat rack full of hangers made not of flimsy wire, but of sturdy pieces of metal about a centimeter wide. I grabbed one, placed it behind the bars on the door, and pushed on the unlocked side. It moved a little, but not much. I pushed harder. The hanger stayed in place, and so did the door. The solution was marvelous in its simplicity, really. I breathed a sigh of relief and exited though a different door, feeling a bit mollified if still a bit stupid.

As I walked to grocery store and then took the train home, I couldn’t help but think of another similar incident in my life. Early one Saturday morning when I was in grad school, I left my apartment to take my laundry down to the basement, closing the door behind me. When I tried to come back in, I discovered that my doorknob would not turn. My mind flashed back to the day before, when my landlord had come by to show someone the apartment. He asked if I’d like him to lock the door when he left, and I said yes. Apparently, instead of locking the deadbolt, he locked the knob. Before this moment, I hadn’t even realized the knob had a lock. Now, it was 7am on a freezing February morning, and I was locked out of my apartment with no roommate, no keys, no shoes, no coat, and no phone.

After trying in vain for a while to wake up my neighbors (who were undergrads and likely passed out), I sat staring at the door for a while trying to decide what to do. (Sound familiar?) When nicely asking my cat to turn the knob didn’t work, I retreated into the basement to look around.

Lucky for me, the basement of the building was packed with tons of old junk that former tenants had left behind – furniture, tools, utensils, clothes, you name it. I gathered anything I thought might allow me to open the door and carried it back up the stairs. Thinking of the slide-the-credit-card trick you so often see on television, I first tried sliding index cards along the door. After shredding my supply of those, I turned to trying to pick the lock with a nail and then the tines of a fork. That got me nowhere. From that point on, my attempts to open the door got more and more complicated. But hark! After nearly 90 minutes of fiddling, I finally got the door open by wedging the door as far away from the frame as it would go using a pair of wire cutters, pushing back the tab of the doorknob as much as I could manage using another object I can’t remember (perhaps a fork?), and then using a butter knife as a screw driver to remover the metal faceplate around the hole in the doorframe. That gave me the few extra millimeters I needed, and I did a little dance of victory when I walked through the door.

I told that story often in the year or so after it first happened, and perhaps my favorite memory associated with it is when I told my dad. I’ll never forget his reaction. He laughed, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “You are my daughter.”

He was right. Everything about that incident has the mark of my dad’s genes. He’s always been a wondrous Mr. Fix-It. Tell him what you need, and an hour later he will have built you something to do the job. It won’t always work the way you expect it to work, but it will work.

When I was growing up, I was always kind of a one-track thinker. If I couldn’t do something in an obvious way, I didn’t know what else to do, and that’s when I turned to my dad. He’d always come up with something. I never thought of myself as being like him that way, but maybe I just wasn’t like that because I never had to be. Now that I’m older, and living on my own, I’m forced to figure things out for myself. Luckily, I am my father’s daughter, and I know I’ll always come up with something in the end.

When I arrived home last night, I was forced to swallow my pride and email the parish business manager to tell him what happened. After all, even with a key, no one was getting in that particular door now, and I didn’t want him to try to force it open.

Far from being upset, he seemed impressed. I couldn’t help but giggle when I read his response this morning. It said, “Hey MacGiver (I’m sure he meant MacGuyver, but the hilarity of the word “give” being in his spelling is not lost on me)! Last night I couldn’t visualize how you closed the door with a coat hanger. This morning I saw. Good job!”

**Takes a bow.** Thank you, thank you! If I were accepting an Oscar for this performance, I would thank my dad. Perhaps I should thank him, anyway.

Thanks, Dad. Love always from your daughter.

"This is to have succeeded..."

Every few weeks, I receive an email from my undergrad alma mater’s alumni association. I confess that I often delete these emails without even opening them. Don’t get me wrong. I love WMU and don’t regret a single day I spent there. But we are neither big nor prestigious, and the alumni association’s headlines usually fail to impress me. “Current student competes in Miss USA pageant.” (Not even Miss America.) “Feasibility of WMU medical school considered.” (But no decision expected any time soon.)

However, a few days ago I received one that caught and held my attention: “WMU President Emeritus Diether Haenicke passes away.” I was taken aback by the instant profound wave of sadness that passed through me. I have not spoken to Dr. Haenicke since I left Western. He was not president while I was a student. He was not my advisor or any other consistent presence in my life while I was in school or since. Yet I find that I am in mourning, and over the past few days, I’ve been paging through my memories of him in an attempt to understand why.

I first met Dr. Haenicke during my first week of classes at WMU. He co-taught an honors seminar I was taking all about Joan of Arc. When I registered for the class, I had absolutely no idea who he was. During the first session, he introduced himself as simply Dr. Haenicke, but the other instructor made sure to point out that he had been president of the university before the current president. I was duly impressed and quite nervous, but I tried to see this as an opportunity. I told myself to be cool and make a good impression during the course of the semester.

I completely blew that goal exactly one week later. The seminar was a once-a-week, Wednesday night class, and Dr. Haenicke told us that over the coming weeks, he was going to take us all out for dinner after class, in groups of five or so. As this is the sort of situation that makes me (or at least, used to make me) horribly anxious, I signed up for the first dinner, telling myself it was better to get it over with. So, after our second class session, I found myself in the back seat of Dr. Haenicke’s car with some other students, on my way to a Chinese restaurant.

I have almost no memory of the dinner itself; I only know it went smoothly and I was feeling happy and confident as Dr. Haenicke was driving us back to campus. It was raining, so he offered to take each of us to our individual dorms. I was the first to be dropped off. He popped his trunk for me, and I jumped out of the car, grabbed my backpack from the trunk, and hurried up the walk toward the door. It was about five seconds later, just as I was reaching for the door handle, that I realized that I had sprinted away without closing the trunk. My stomach sank and as I turned around and watched the former president of the university (whom had just bought me dinner, by the way) step out into the pouring rain as a result of my stupidity. We made eye contact for the briefest of moments, and then he was back in the car and pulling away.

I walked back up to my dorm room and contemplated never leaving again. I felt like I could never show my face to Dr. Haenicke again. Things did seem a bit less bleak the next morning, but not for long. I went to a morning history lecture and then scampered to my 10AM psychology lab. As I walked toward the building, I couldn’t help but notice the name spelled on it in giant black letters: Haenicke Hall. The reality of whom I had embarrassed myself in front of slammed home yet again, and I secretly prayed that I would never see Dr. Haenicke again.

Obviously, that particular prayer was not answered. Not only did I see Dr. Haenicke every week in my Joan of Arc course, I also found out that he was heavily involved in the Medallion program, the very scholarship program that was funding my education. Every individual scholarship is named for either a donor or an honoree, and one of the winners in my year was the recipient of the Diether Haenicke Medallion. Dr. Haenicke was present at almost every reception and dinner I attended for the program for the next four years.

It could have been a horribly embarrassing situation every time we met, but Dr. Haeniecke never held the trunk against me. He greeted me warmly every time we met, and if he ever had reason to introduce me to someone else, he made mention of my insightful comments in class or my well-written final exam, not of my failure to close his trunk. He did not write me off as hopeless or unworthy, as he so easily could have. Instead, he forgot my shortcomings and noticed my potential. He humbled me not by looking down on me, but by treating me as an equal. In that way, he challenged me to be a better person.

After a lot of reflection, I realize that is why I am so sad to hear of his passing. Even though my day to day life will not change at all as a result of his death, I still know that the world at large is suffering a profound loss. The world was a better place while he was around, not only because of the person he was, but because of the person he expected you to be while you were around him.

I am just recently 26. I realize this is young by almost any measure, but I still find myself worrying from time to time that I am wasting these precious years of my life. As happy and satisfied as I claim to be right now (and I am, really!), I can’t help but wonder if I will look back some day and regret not spending my twenties traveling the world or at least doing something more incredible than going to bar trivia. I’m sure I’ll have similar worries throughout my life. My greatest fear is wasting this life I’ve been given. I never know how I will measure success; I am never sure how I will tell if I have done enough with my life to deserve this greatest of gifts.

In saying goodbye to a teacher and mentor, I think I may have found an answer.

Rest in peace, Dr. Haenicke. If, when I die, even one person remembers me the way I remember you, I will know I’ve done enough.

Batty for Books

I love books.

It’s a common statement – perhaps even a cliché – but I feel like it’s a lesser known fact about me. When I was growing up, it was my sister that was considered the avid reader. Laurie was the one that got the “Book Lady” tote bags, the autographed book release posters, and the bookstore jobs. People knew I liked to read, too, but it wasn’t part of my identity the way it was a part of hers.

I suppose I can understand why things ended up this way. Laurie is a speed reader. She can read a book a day, easy. In fact, she’s probably read more books by now than I will read in my lifetime. She skims through them, understanding the plot and main points if not every single subtle nuance.

I, on the other hand, plod through books like I am wading through quicksand. I read every single word and contemplate the meaning of every single sentence. I’m forever flipping back to reread parts that have suddenly become more important or to make sure I have all the characters and the chronology straight in my head. When I finish a book, I know the story and characters intimately, at least until the details are pushed out of my memory by a new book. It takes me a long time to read a book, even the easy ones – and a hard read will take me over a month sometimes. This methodical technique of complete comprehension is probably one of the things that makes me so good at my job.

My slow, careful reading style also has another effect: my complete and total immersion into the world of a story. When I’m reading a book, particularly one I really like, the real world around me starts to face away. I see the setting and characters, and almost hear them speaking. I have some sort of vague awareness of the things going on around me; I’ll respond if someone says my name, but I usually have to ask people to repeat any questions they ask me. Reading is almost time travel to me.

Mostly, I love this about myself. I like being able to completely abandon the real world, if only temporarily, anytime I want. But this time-travel phenomenon also has an unexpected consequence that may get me into trouble one day. You see, when I’m deep into a good book, I never completely come back from the story world, even when I’m not reading. My habit of completely immersing myself into the story affects the way I react to things in the real world.

Let me give you a few examples from the book I’m reading right now. It’s a thousand-page historical fiction novel about life in 14th-century England. About halfway through the book, my favorite character, Caris, was accused of practicing witchcraft. It terrified her – witchcraft was both impossible to prove and impossible to disprove in those days, and superstitions usually won out. Almost any woman who was accused of witchcraft ended up being sentenced to death. Caris only narrowly escaped this fate herself. She confessed her sins and her death sentence was suspended so long as she took vows and became a nun. It was a horrible sacrifice for her, as she was in love and supposed to be married days later.

Reading that part of the story made me both sad for Caris and scared for women in general. But not just the women in the story – all women, then and now, including myself. A couple of days later, I was walking home from the train stop, and it started to rain. I instinctively reached for my hood. But then I hesitated as I remembered which coat I was wearing. It’s a blue corduroy jacket, and on the back are sewn white patches that spell “WICH,” an acronym for Wizards In CHicago, for an informal Harry Potter fan club of which I am a member. Usually the patches are hidden by the hood, but putting the hood up would expose them. As I thought about that, I remembered Caris and her trial, and I worried that the wrong person would see the patches and accuse me of being a witch. I walked the rest of the way home letting the rain soak my hair and face. I was too afraid to put the hood up.

Nuts, right? First of all, the likelihood of anyone even noticing the patches was slim. Second, even if anyone did, I doubt his or her first thought would be to accuse me of witchcraft, as it is 2009 and generally accepted that witchcraft is not possible. Third, even if some person DID accuse me of being a witch, there’s no way I would be sentenced to death. I know all those things, yet the world of the story has become so real for me that I couldn’t quite shake the fear.

Later in the book, the plague strikes the village and half of the population dies. The people become paranoid and fearful, and every sniffle and sneeze is looked upon with dread. Hence, paranoia struck me, too. I was at work one day last week, and I overheard one of my coworkers say to another something as mundane as, “How are you feeling?” My first, fleeting thought? “Oh, no, I hope he doesn’t have the plague!” I quickly quashed that thought before I said anything foolish, but I acknowledge that I thought it, anyway. Even though I was at work, reading about exponential regression, a part of me was still in Kingsbridge, England, in 1337.

As I said before, even though I like how deeply involved I get into book, I worry that someday I will say something completely batty and be locked up for life. Sometimes, I don’t quash my reactions so easily. Yesterday, at the end of my lunch break, I read a passage from the book where one of the male characters does something unforgivably selfish and cowardly. Before I could stop myself, I slammed the book closed and said, “Even in the 14th century, men were stupid.”

No one who overheard seemed to think I was crazy. Lucky for me, I suppose, that some things never change.

Otherwise known as Furry Boot Girl

Winter sucks. There’s just no getting around it. Highs in the single digits and below zero wind chills make life miserable for everyone who has to so much as step outside. However, I’m convinced that those that suffer the most are those that wait for the bus. There’s no way to describe the sense of misery I feel as I step off the train on one of those cold, cold mornings and walk to the bus stop, knowing I could be standing there for over half an hour.

It’s hard to feel alone in my suffering, though, when I see the same people at the bus stop every morning. In my 15 months of commuting to the loop on the brown line, even though I always waited at the same stop, I never recognized anyone. Somehow, the bus stop is different. It’s like an odd little club we have – everyone knows everybody else, usually not by name, but at least by sight.

It’s an odd social situation, really. I’m both fascinated and frustrated by it. I see these people more often than my family or most of my friends. Consequently, I will sometimes mention them when I’m telling people about my day. But it’s difficult to refer to a nameless face. So what do I do? Ask their names, in an effort to fight the isolation in a crowd that all of us city-dwellers live with? No, silly readers. That would require a great deal of initiative and the breaking of many unspoken public transportation courtesies. Instead, I assign them my own set of names.

There’s a girl, probably around my age, that waits for my bus in the morning. She almost always has a coffee in her hands, and wears a red ski jacket. What really strikes me about her, though, is her curly hair, especially since it’s often still wet as she stands in the cold. Ergo, I know her as Curly Hair Girl. We commiserate about the cold from time to time, but I really know nothing else about her.

Once I board the bus, there are a few other people I always see. One man is almost a fixture in the front side-facing seats. He’s there, every morning, with a thread of yarn slowly being pulled out of his backpack as he knits or crochets. To this day, I can’t figure out how he keeps his stitches so straight on a bouncing bus. He’s Knitting Guy.

There’s another man – a bit of a newcomer, starting to ride my bus a month or two ago – that sits in the same seat each morning, facing straight ahead and scowling. His coat is an unappealing shade of orange. He’s Angry Orange Coat Guy.

Of course, there are a few regulars at on my bus home, as well. One is an older woman with a fabulous head of long white hair, always held in place by combs. She’s friendly with the drivers and very likable. She’s White Hair Lady.

Another regular is a boy who must be a student at the U of Chicago Lab School. He’s always camped out in a corner in the back, working on his homework. Hence, he is Homework Kid. Before he gets off the bus, he always does a second check of his seat to make sure he has everything. For some reason, this always makes me smile. His mom taught him well.

You may think I’m odd for assigning these people such goofy names. I thought I was odd, too, at first. But then I learned I am not the only one who does this. I have a coworker that sometimes rides my bus home, and we had a discussion about this once. Turns out we both have the same name for White Hair Lady.

Not all our names are the same, though. On one bus ride we shared, when a twenty-something I call iPod Guy got off the bus, I mentioned his name to my coworker. She said something to the effect of, “Oh. I’ve always just called him ‘Guy Who Gets Off Here and Goes That Way.’” (And you thought my names were bad!)

To be fair, some people are kinder with their names than me. I sometimes ride a bus home that makes only limited stops. Since the stops are so far apart, there’s tons of time for passengers to pull the cord that signals the bus driver to stop. However, regardless of when you pull the cord, you only have to do it once. There’s one woman that stands for the entire 7 minutes between her stop and the one prior, tossing her hair long black back and forth and pulling the cord every thirty seconds. For some reason, I find this unspeakably annoying. My friend has seen this woman, too. She calls her Long Hair Lady. Me? I call her Obnoxious Cord Puller.

While finding out that I wasn’t the only one that did this made me feel a little better, another thought also occurred to me. If people I know also create these names, people I don’t know must do so as well. And that means I’ve probably got a name or two of my own.

But what do people call me? I’ve got some theories. Last winter, I tended to wear my black peacoat with a bright red hat. This year, I’m partial to my down coat and my pink scarf. So I’m guessing there’s at least a few people who know me as Red Hat Girl or Pink Scarf Girl.

One never knows what will catch people’s attention, though. Maybe the hat and scarf are not my most distinctive features. Maybe people remember me for my love of the RedEye crossword, and I am Crossword Puzzle Girl. Perhaps people can’t understand why I choose to stand outside the bus shelter, even in the bitter wind, and I am Shuns the Shelter Lady. To the other woman who carries the same commuter bag as me, I imagine my name is Woman Who Has My Bag. Or it could be that my habit of saying hello to the driver when I get on and thank you when I get off is my most distinctive feature, and I’m Girl Who Talks to the Driver.

I’d love to believe that last one is the most prevalent name I have. Unfortunately, I think Furry Boot Girl is far more likely.

26 thoughts on my 26th birthday

1. My birthday party was a lot of fun, and there was no group-mixing drama. I guess my theoretical analysis was pretty accurate. I’ve always been good with theory, though. I am a mathematician, after all.

2. Even though I spent the day slogging through some binomial probability misery, I can’t help but think to myself that taking the job at U of C was one of the best decisions I ever made. I’m really good at what I do, and I feel that my work is important and worthwhile. I never really felt that way at my last job. My job also connected me with some really great friends, and I’m equally grateful for that.

3. It’s been about two and a half years since I took in my kitty, and at certain moments, I am still amazed what an extraordinarily good companion she is. She’s a loudmouth, and she scratches my furniture, but I can’t imagine how lonely my apartment would be without her.

4. It’s almost the end of January, and that means we are through a substantial portion of the winter. Amen to that. I think perhaps this one was a little easier than the last. Of course, now I just jinxed it.

5. I’m starting to train for the half marathon, and I am actually really excited about it. I think it’s because running is the first thing I have ever really succeeded at athletically. I’m only competing against myself, for myself, and that relieves a lot of pressure for me. It also makes running achievements all that more satisfying – I always know I did it all on my own.

6. I can hear my neighbors talking through the walls right now. I can’t hear individual words, only murmuring and laughter. It makes me smile to hear them laugh, even though I don’t know them. The more laughter in the world, the better. Look at me; now that I’m 26, I apparently think I am a wise sage.

7. Today, Governor Blagojevich compared himself to Ghandi. He’s completely delusional. Also, the auto industry continues to collapse. So, both Illinois and Michigan are in rough shape. I’m starting to think it’s got something to do with me. Don’t let me move to your state.

8. I just put my iTunes on. I always forget how music can help me focus and invigorate me. I really don’t utilize it enough.

9. The other interesting thing about listening to music is how different songs make me think of different people and different parts of my life. It’s a fun thing to do on my birthday, when I’m reflecting on things past. I wonder how my friends from Sweden would feel about the fact that I associate them with “Shut Up” by the Black Eyed Peas. (Actually, I know they would understand exactly why it makes me think of them. Oh, the memories of cheap German wine….)

10. I’m proud of myself for getting involved with some things this year. Leading the food pantry bagging, in particular, has been a trip. There’s never a dull moment. Last week, I had two toddlers who put cans of tuna in the bags for me. The week before, one of the French community teens told me they couldn’t find the tuna, but they finished packing the Chicken of the Sea. Hmm, why do all the interesting stories involve tuna?

11. Every morning, I see the same people at the bus stop, yet I don’t know any of their names. Is that sad, or just the nature of riding public transportation?

12. Wicked closed yesterday. It still makes me sad. It’s going to be weird seeing a different marquee at the theater. It’s almost like an old friend moved away.

13. I’m going to see Spamalot this weekend. It will be my 49th musical. I feel I should commemorate #50 somehow. Any ideas? Anyone want to come?

14. It’s been a tight month, but I’ve still got $38 left in my budget to last me until I get paid on Friday. I plan to spend it on beer and bar food at trivia tomorrow. I wouldn’t admit that, but since it’s my birthday today, you are not allowed to judge.

15. I can’t believe the number of people that wrote on my Facebook wall today. One was sitting about 4 feet from me at the time. Another wrote from Sweden. Oh, the wonders of technology.

16. The alarm clock next to my bed is five minutes fast, and the clock on my VCR is three minutes slow. These are the only readily visible clocks in my apartment. I’m not sure why I’m so anal retentive about most things but I find my clocks completely normal.

17. I complain often about the lack of space in my studio apartment, but looking around, I think perhaps I could utilize the space better. For instance, do I need three pairs of huge plush slippers – cats, ladybugs, and giraffes? …. Yes, yes I do. Never mind.

18. I’m usually very conscious of what I eat, but today, just for the day, I ate whatever the heck I wanted, which included a cream cheese Danish, several chocolate covered strawberries, Coldstone ice cream, and hot chocolate. It was so worth it. I really recommend treating yourself on your birthday.

19. Nothing touches me more than when someone does or says something that shows that they were listening to me in some idle conversation in the past. A friend came to my birthday party bearing a Borders gift card. It may seem like a generic, safe gift, but she also said she looked for the book I was reading now – which I had told her I was really enjoying a few days before – and looked for something like it. She eventually decided to go with the gift card, but the fact that she remembered the title of the book really got me. Thanks, Carla.

20. I’m looking right now at the other gift I received that night – a bowl, hand thrown and glazed by the only amateur potter I know. It came with an opportunity for a trade-in when he goes pro. How can I not be flattered? I had almost forgotten how much fun it was to receive a handmade gift. Thanks, Ben. I’ll always think of this birthday when I look at it.

21. Actually, perhaps it’s any out-of-the-way effort that gets to me. Thanks, Cabby and Guacs, for letting me host at your apartment.

22. Thanks Jess, for coming from the other end of the city.

23. Thanks Meg, for getting there from Chinatown, bearing fortune cookies.

24. Thanks Carlos, for bringing me the top-shelf beer. It all meant a lot to me.

25. I am happy. I am truly, honestly satisfied with my life right now, and that’s the best birthday gift I could ask for. I’ve worked really hard over the past few years to discover things that interest me, follow my passions, and meet new people, and all of that has really paid off for me. It’s the best birthday gift I could have asked for, and I thank everyone who has helped me get here.

26. This 27th year? I think it’s going to be a good one.

Birthday masks?

Well, folks, it’s t-minus one week until I turn 26. Since my birthday is on the 26th of January, that makes this my golden birthday! And I’m proud to report that in my three and a half years in the city, I have finally met enough people that I can throw a party.

Yup, next Saturday, I’ve invited all my friends to come and celebrate with me at my gracious host’s lakefront condo. I sent an evite, and so far I have 17 e-yeses and 2 e-maybes. That’s a lot of e-sponses! (Yes, Scrubs fans, I did borrow that line from J.D.) I’m really excited that so many people are coming. (Though I barely know a few of them, so this kinda makes it look like I have more friends than I really do. Shut up. It’s my birthday. Let me have it.)

The high number of attendees is actually going to make this quite interesting, because it’s my first attempt at mixing groups of friends. Theoretically, this should not be a big deal, but the idea has gotten me thinking about a skit that comedian Jim Gaffigan does about the different faces we put on for different groups. He says something like, “Just so you know, this group thinks I don’t drink, and that group thinks I have a British accent.” Obviously, no one thinks I have a British accent (I wouldn’t be able to fake it if I tried!) and I’m pretty sure I’ve never so much as insinuated that I don’t drink. However, I have been thinking about the ways I act around each group and wondering if there will be any surprises for anyone.

Let’s examine the facts, shall we?

Group: co-workers
What we’ve done together: Work (obviously), so they know that I am generally focused worker who doesn’t leave her desk much. Bar trivia, so they know I’m clueless when it comes to sports, and not much better when it comes to anything but math. Other parties, so they have seen me drink and know I suck at beer pong.
What they don’t know: any details about my life before I moved to Chicago – no ex-boy drama, no family drama, no study abroad trauma. They know who I am now, but not where I come from.

Group: ex-roommates
What we’ve done together: Lived (obviously) through my first year in the city, so they saw my rocky homesickness phase and my depressed, post heart-ripping-out phase, and they know I basically won’t clean until something’s disgusting. Some bar outings, so they know a lot about my once-controlling, now under-control social anxiety issues about bars.
What they don’t know: How much my current situation suits me, and how involved I’ve gotten with social and volunteering stuff. They saw me struggle. I’m not sure they saw me get all the way out of the abyss.

Group: friends from undergrad
What we’ve done together: Gone to school (do I need to say it again?), so they know I am a grade monger to the extreme. Done lots of church and volunteer stuff, so they know I have it in me to be a successful, albeit reluctant, leader.
What they don’t know: The ways I interact with my boss and coworkers, and how seriously I take my job. We don’t talk about work all that much, and I don’t think they really know how good I am at my job and how much I really love it.

Group: friends from grad school
What we’ve done together: Studied, studied, studied, so they know how I am obsessive compulsive about getting stuff done. Done some Harry Potter discussions and games, so they know the extent of my nerd-dom in that department.
What they don’t know: almost anything about my life before or after grad school. During that year, school was my life, and the only other thing I talked about was joining the Peace Corps. So, looking back, I’m not sure they know much more than how I felt and acted during that one year of my life. However, they are the only ones that really know about that year.

Group: well, this time, one person – my sister.
What we’ve done together: Oh good God, shared a bedroom, shared a bathroom, shared the back seat of a car on long trips… you know how it is with siblings. Since she moved to Chicago, gone to plays and dinner from time to time. Laurie was a part of my everyday life until she left for college, and has heard second hand about most of my life’s triumphs and defeats after that.
What she doesn’t know: The day-to-day details of my life right now. She only hears about the deviations from that. I’m not sure she knows how I get to work, what I do all day, what coffee shops I frequent, or what TV shows I watch.

So, it’s true that every group has a slightly different picture of me in their minds. But after that analysis, I don’t think that any of those pictures really conflict with each other. They’re just each incomplete – each a different piece of my whole.

This conclusion pleases me, because it means that I’m not really wearing any masks these days. I have different outlets for my different interests, but I don’t become a different person to please different people. Maybe, after 26 years, I have figured out who I really am.

Of course, this is just a theoretical analysis. I’ll be interested to see what happens at the party. Perhaps you, reader, will be there, but if not – wish me luck.