Thursday, March 17, 2011
I'm Moving to Wordpress
I'm saying bye bye to blogspot and hello to wordpress. Plus, I'll be submitting a new post every week. #bigshitpoppin Subscribe: emilybelden.wordpress.com
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
A Baby By Me
It’s kind of funny actually.
Ask any girl my age and she’ll confirm that there ought to be some sort of award out there for making it to the quarter-century mark without having to go shopping for a crib. Literally, most girls – myself included – will likely go through all of college and their early 20s playing Russian Roulette with a pee stick every now and then. Sorry moms and dads of America, I’m just keeping it real.
You would think avoiding pregnancy is easy, but it’s actually a lot harder than just wrapping it up or popping a pill. After all, these are the same years people tend dabble in extracurriculars like keg stands and same-sex makeout sessions. Those aren’t exactly the precursors for abstinence, people. In fact, as anyone who has ever taken a beer bong in an Abercrombie mini skirt would know, those very actions are more like the gateways to some serious pregnancy scares.
Well, flash forward a few years and a 401K later and I still dodge pregnancy like it’s a pothole, which is ironic considering how highly single I am. But this is not a post to go into my undatabilty, but rather to bring to light something I’ve kept to myself for over a year now.
Tune in.
Last year, I was at a routine checkup at the OBGYN. The visit was normal, I was in and out in a half hour and downing a Potbelly’s sandwich 10 minutes later. About a month after, however, I received a phone call from the doctor with some interesting news regarding my monthly cycle. I’ll spare the details for now, but the bottom line was she wanted me to begin some hormone therapy to try and regulate it.
Last Tuesday marked one year of doing this therapy and very oddly, no change in my system took place.
“Hmmm,” my doctor said in the exam room last week. “Well,” she continued, “you aren’t trying to get pregnant are you?”
“No, Doctor,” I replied. “Definitely not trying to get pregnant.”
“Good. Because, I have to be honest with you. If I were to guess right now, I would say you will have a lot of trouble getting pregnant. That is, if you can get pregnant at all.”
I guess I was so used to celebrating any combination of the words “Not Pregnant” that I didn’t give what she said too much thought at that moment. I simply got dressed, headed home and proceeded with my night as usual.
The next days proceeded as usual, too. That is, until I passed an elementary school near Division and Clark.
I was walking down the block, heading to my office. I was in my own world listening to my headphones as I nonchalantly passed person after person. Then, I saw a little girl, about 6 years old, walking towards me with her backpack on and an adorable pep in her step. She had as many colored barrettes in her hair as lip gloss tubes in my purse and I couldn’t help but wonder if her hot pink high-tops came in adult sizes.
We locked eyes and I kind of smirked, the way I would when passing a fellow jogger on the Lake Path. To my smirk, she responded with a full-fledged, bright white smile.
I knew that smile, as I have flashed something similar before. I recognized it as the same smile I shot at my mom when coming out of kindergarten and seeing her there to pick me up by the flagpole.
At that moment, it dawned on me that I might never get to see a ‘little me’ flash a “there’s my favorite person!” smile my way. And although what that girl showed me was far more satiating at 8:30 in the morning than any Starbucks latte, it was also a rough reminder that I needed to revisit the news my doctor gave me and come to terms with what it meant, despite the fact that I was far off from having to really dwell on its reality.
On one hand, I didn’t have to worry about that “whoops” situation all young adults dread. On the other, I couldn’t help but lose a little hope in the 35-year-old version of me that I pictured in my head all my life. I mean, sure it’s foggy, but don’t we all kind of envision our lives around that point as one with a significant other and maybe a couple kids?
It was like I had placed a stock photo of my future in frame, but didn’t have the rights to own the photo just yet. As such, there was a giant watermark “?” looming over the image of me and my future happy family.
Bummer.
Then I realized, I needed to not count out the 35-year-old me just yet. Life has a funny way of working out. Maybe seeing that little girl and connecting with her big, teethy grin was not necessarily the omen I thought. Perhaps instead of it indicating something I wouldn’t have, it was really a sign of something I will have.
Even though I forget it sometimes, I believe the key to a happy life is in perception and positivity. And when take a moment, pause, and put those two together, I absolutely know that the middle-aged me will be someone’s favorite person, standing by a flagpole, someday.
Until then, iStock can just be patient as I remain positive.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
My Eat, Pray, Love Moment
There's no doubt that 2011 began slightly rocky for Miss Emily. I rang in New Year's night in a less-than-lackluster way, work blew up the following week (apparently the hospitality industry procrastinates worse than college freshmen), and ... to top it off ... my gas bill came. But thanks to my belief in the Law of Peaks & Valleys, I knew I was due for an upswing, or at least a prescription for Xanax.
Last Saturday night, I had a couple drinks with a friend in Bucktown. After our rounds, I left to catch a cab - but something about an inviting Tapas restaurant next door drew me in for a quick bite before officially calling it a night. I posted up for about two hours there, noshing on tasty yum-yums and enjoying a few house-made sangrias alongside the friendly wait staff. Typical Emily.
One o'clock in the morning had come and gone, and by then, so had my sobriety. It was time for me to put on my sweatshirt and brave Milwaukee Ave in search of a cab.
This was more like whale-watching than anything, as I saw not one with its light on. Just when I was about to resort to passing out in my dress right there on the street, a taxi pulled up and I saw the man in the backseat reach for his wallet. He was getting out, and I sure as hell was about to get in.
The man in the backseat (30-something, alone, stylish) saw me shivering and stalking the door handle. He waved me into the cab to warm up as he paid his fare. I pounced at the opportunity for a heat vent to be blasted on my face and got inside.
His accent.
Was.
Beautiful.
I had no idea where this passenger was from, but he made my already-tingly legs, weak. Thank God I was sitting.
"Your accent is gorgeous, where are you from?" I asked as my teeth chattered.
"Holland."
...In a moment like I've never experienced before, we simply stared at each other...
"I'm only here for two weeks," he then stated. "Where are you going? Come have a drink with me."
No way, I thought. Not only had I reached my max, but I had just read an article in Marie Claire earlier THAT DAY about a reporter who had a similar bout with a European man. I'll spare the gory details, but she barely made it out alive. Instead, I opted to give the stranger my number and told him to call me. I shut the door, my cab driver high-fived me and we were off to Lincoln Park.
Floris was the man's name, at least that's how he signed a text message he sent me about an hour or so later. He was wishing me a nice night, hoped that my cab was warm, and said it was nice meeting me. I wrote him back, but never received a response.
Such is life. My life, at least.
Two days later, he called me from a hotel, The Belden(ironic)-Stratford Inn. He explained that even though he never heard back from me (my text didn't go through to his Dutch phone apparently), he still wanted to see if I would be interested in dinner. He said that he had the next day off (from what, I did not know) and wanted to try a restaurant about which he'd heard good things. I thought, "Portillos?" He thought: Schwa.
Five tables total. No servers, just esteemed chefs. 10 courses. Three-months wait for reservations. And we were in for 9pm, Tuesday night? Who was this guy? I'm for sure going to be human-trafficked in Holland, I thought. Still, my mind got to work, assembling a mental outfit for what was going to inevitably be the best meal of my life.
Putting on my makeup before heading out for our reservation, I was certainly skeptical. I had never been to the area where this restaurant was, I hardly remembered exactly what this guy looked like, I had no idea what his last name was, what he was doing here, where he was staying, how old he was, etc. All I could find peace in was the fact that if I didn't make it out alive, my last meal would be at one of the nicest restaurants in Chicago. I could go out like that, I thought.
I arrived via taxi outside the unassuming storefront. Sandwiched between a tire shop and a crack -den, I truthfully thought I was in the wrong place until I saw him - just the way I remembered him - standing there with two bottles of champagne. He kissed my cheek. Then my other cheek. Then the first cheek, again.
We opened the outside door of the eatery, and to both of our surprises, the inside door was chained up and locked with a hand-written note taped to the window saying they decided not to open that night after all. Wonderful, I thought. Not only was I not going to eat at this fantastic place, but this is probably all part of his master plan to rape and murder a cute, little American woman.
Floris pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket with a few other restaurant names scribbled on it. I noticed they were all 3-star Michelin establishments. "Not to worry, Emily. I have other recommendations from my team at Alinea."
Alinea. From what I knew about that place, the chef, Grant Achatz, is like a modern-day Willy Wonka. What was this guy doing working at such an epicurean wonderland? I wasn't going to ask (yet). I was, however, going to get into a cab with him and head to our new destination: Bonsoiree.
We arrived at the restaurant 10 minutes later. It was small, minimalistic, and perfectly square shaped - like an albino Rubick's cube. We told the staff about the Schwa shut-down and they weren't at all surprised by the impromptu closing. In fact, they obliged us by working diligently to clear a quiet table for us in the back, and even poured our BYO as a consolation. Cheers to that.
Floris and I toasted - we had made it to a nice dinner after all. And for the first time, I finally felt like I could relax and really look at this person with whom I was about to enjoy 8 courses.
His eyes. His smile. His demeanor.
My naivety. My outfit. My appetite.
Our table. Our champagne flutes. Our first languages.
....It was all just so overtly romantic....
A glass of bubbly in, and I was ready to hear his compelling story.
It starts with him being a renowned top chef. He owns one of the nicest restaurants in Holland, in Europe in fact. When the economy tanked last year, his restaurant was one of the only to do better than years past. With his successful kitchen running on cruise control, he decided to leave his business for two weeks to study the ways of Alinea, and bring morsels of Mr. Achatz's expertise back overseas with him.
A week ago, Floris arrived on an airplane to the United States for the first time in his 34 years of life. The TSA confiscated his knife set within moments. Welcome to America, huh? Since landing, he's been working until 2:00am everyday at the restaurant. And in the off-moments when he's not there, he's taking photos of the city, making friends with cab drivers, and eating at every Chicago staple from Hot Doug's to L2O. What a life.
The night I met him, he had just left a 15-hour shift at the restaurant and was going to get a drink at a bar in Wicker before heading home. He said I was the first person he had spoken to outside of Alinea and cabbies. As such, he was hesitant to follow up with me and ask me out for dinner. I wondered why? After all, two weeks was a long time to go without the company of another, in my opinion. But he explained that he felt something odd about our passing, a connection he could not describe - perhaps that it was one of those moments in life where your course is changed, and that was a fearful notion to him, given our circumstances.
Was I really on a date with a guy in THIS city, having THIS conversation? Normally it's about how often one or the other smokes pot or which bars have the best happy hour deals...it's never about fate. Serendipity. Star-crossed lovers. Whatever...
We ended up closing down the restaurant, Bonsoiree (yes, I gave them a 5-star Yelp review in exchange for their hospitality). Four hours, 8 courses (plus a repeat of Dish-5, an amazing scallop), and one bottle of champagne later, I knew a lot about Floris. He runs a beautiful kitchen and leads a staff of 11 workers. He is not married, and has no children. He had a girlfriend who lived with him for about a year, but they have since separated. He has a sister and 3-year-old niece. He drives an Audi back home. He's a champagne connoisseur. He was just getting over a cold. He has a tattoo on his leg (of what? I don't know, I just saw ink through a rip in his jeans). He said that no matter what happens in life, who or what comes or goes, he will always have his sense of "taste" and it will never let him down, which is why cooking and food are his passions.
While these are all the things he told me, what I actually know about Floris for certain did not come from anything he said. It came from what I felt. From that, I am positive that this man is more full of wonder and excitement about life than anyone I've ever met. Hands down. No question. And that, my friends, is a piece of truth that is beauty. Or perhaps a beauty, that is truth. I'll take either one.
When it was my turn to talk, I was surprised that my usual wild antics weren't kicking in. The crude, say-anything Emily took a back seat, and let civilized, calm Emily make an appearance. I was careful with my words, really thinking about the best way to express myself to someone who didn't share my same language. It was nice to pause and articulate, as opposed to rant and rave. I don't get - rather, take - that opportunity often.
Lastly to mention, he said he would be lying if he didn't day dream while riding the elevator to the top of the John Hancock Building earlier that day about what it would be like if I really was someone different - not just the girl who got into the cab after he got out. Would I ever move to Holland? Would I miss my family too much to live there? Hearing that he had pondered these concepts did not freak me out at all. It was probably one of the - if not thee - most romantic moments of my life.
So very clearly, this meal was not about the food. It was not about the braised rabbit, the truffle gnocchi, the sweet potato puree, or the cheesecake. Though my stomach could not have been happier, my heart is truly what was satiated.
Floris and I have plans to dine again together before his departure, as we are determined to give Schwa another go. Despite whether we are greeted this time again with locks & chains - or actual forks & knives, I am simply excited to be on his menu once more.
A week from now, Floris will be thousands of miles away, cooking in his kitchen, driving his Audi, hugging his niece. Meeting and dining with him in the nook of a tiny Chicago restaurant will be like a momentary blip on the radar of my life. I will no longer have the luxury of sitting across from him, watching the excitement in his eyes as he attempts to explain just how exactly he is feeling in a language that is not his own. I will no longer have the honor of dining opposite a top chef just moments before he indulges in a delicacy that this cheeseburger-and-fries girl has most certainly never even heard of. And I will no longer have the privilege of being near someone who is as in love with life as I am at every given moment.
Such is life. My life, at least.
I can tell already that I will miss him, but I know the void I will likely feel will certainly pale in comparison to the luck I do feel that I was ever even able to meet this incredible, incredible man.
Buon appetite.
Last Saturday night, I had a couple drinks with a friend in Bucktown. After our rounds, I left to catch a cab - but something about an inviting Tapas restaurant next door drew me in for a quick bite before officially calling it a night. I posted up for about two hours there, noshing on tasty yum-yums and enjoying a few house-made sangrias alongside the friendly wait staff. Typical Emily.
One o'clock in the morning had come and gone, and by then, so had my sobriety. It was time for me to put on my sweatshirt and brave Milwaukee Ave in search of a cab.
This was more like whale-watching than anything, as I saw not one with its light on. Just when I was about to resort to passing out in my dress right there on the street, a taxi pulled up and I saw the man in the backseat reach for his wallet. He was getting out, and I sure as hell was about to get in.
The man in the backseat (30-something, alone, stylish) saw me shivering and stalking the door handle. He waved me into the cab to warm up as he paid his fare. I pounced at the opportunity for a heat vent to be blasted on my face and got inside.
His accent.
Was.
Beautiful.
I had no idea where this passenger was from, but he made my already-tingly legs, weak. Thank God I was sitting.
"Your accent is gorgeous, where are you from?" I asked as my teeth chattered.
"Holland."
...In a moment like I've never experienced before, we simply stared at each other...
"I'm only here for two weeks," he then stated. "Where are you going? Come have a drink with me."
No way, I thought. Not only had I reached my max, but I had just read an article in Marie Claire earlier THAT DAY about a reporter who had a similar bout with a European man. I'll spare the gory details, but she barely made it out alive. Instead, I opted to give the stranger my number and told him to call me. I shut the door, my cab driver high-fived me and we were off to Lincoln Park.
Floris was the man's name, at least that's how he signed a text message he sent me about an hour or so later. He was wishing me a nice night, hoped that my cab was warm, and said it was nice meeting me. I wrote him back, but never received a response.
Such is life. My life, at least.
Two days later, he called me from a hotel, The Belden(ironic)-Stratford Inn. He explained that even though he never heard back from me (my text didn't go through to his Dutch phone apparently), he still wanted to see if I would be interested in dinner. He said that he had the next day off (from what, I did not know) and wanted to try a restaurant about which he'd heard good things. I thought, "Portillos?" He thought: Schwa.
Five tables total. No servers, just esteemed chefs. 10 courses. Three-months wait for reservations. And we were in for 9pm, Tuesday night? Who was this guy? I'm for sure going to be human-trafficked in Holland, I thought. Still, my mind got to work, assembling a mental outfit for what was going to inevitably be the best meal of my life.
Putting on my makeup before heading out for our reservation, I was certainly skeptical. I had never been to the area where this restaurant was, I hardly remembered exactly what this guy looked like, I had no idea what his last name was, what he was doing here, where he was staying, how old he was, etc. All I could find peace in was the fact that if I didn't make it out alive, my last meal would be at one of the nicest restaurants in Chicago. I could go out like that, I thought.
I arrived via taxi outside the unassuming storefront. Sandwiched between a tire shop and a crack -den, I truthfully thought I was in the wrong place until I saw him - just the way I remembered him - standing there with two bottles of champagne. He kissed my cheek. Then my other cheek. Then the first cheek, again.
We opened the outside door of the eatery, and to both of our surprises, the inside door was chained up and locked with a hand-written note taped to the window saying they decided not to open that night after all. Wonderful, I thought. Not only was I not going to eat at this fantastic place, but this is probably all part of his master plan to rape and murder a cute, little American woman.
Floris pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket with a few other restaurant names scribbled on it. I noticed they were all 3-star Michelin establishments. "Not to worry, Emily. I have other recommendations from my team at Alinea."
Alinea. From what I knew about that place, the chef, Grant Achatz, is like a modern-day Willy Wonka. What was this guy doing working at such an epicurean wonderland? I wasn't going to ask (yet). I was, however, going to get into a cab with him and head to our new destination: Bonsoiree.
We arrived at the restaurant 10 minutes later. It was small, minimalistic, and perfectly square shaped - like an albino Rubick's cube. We told the staff about the Schwa shut-down and they weren't at all surprised by the impromptu closing. In fact, they obliged us by working diligently to clear a quiet table for us in the back, and even poured our BYO as a consolation. Cheers to that.
Floris and I toasted - we had made it to a nice dinner after all. And for the first time, I finally felt like I could relax and really look at this person with whom I was about to enjoy 8 courses.
His eyes. His smile. His demeanor.
My naivety. My outfit. My appetite.
Our table. Our champagne flutes. Our first languages.
....It was all just so overtly romantic....
A glass of bubbly in, and I was ready to hear his compelling story.
It starts with him being a renowned top chef. He owns one of the nicest restaurants in Holland, in Europe in fact. When the economy tanked last year, his restaurant was one of the only to do better than years past. With his successful kitchen running on cruise control, he decided to leave his business for two weeks to study the ways of Alinea, and bring morsels of Mr. Achatz's expertise back overseas with him.
A week ago, Floris arrived on an airplane to the United States for the first time in his 34 years of life. The TSA confiscated his knife set within moments. Welcome to America, huh? Since landing, he's been working until 2:00am everyday at the restaurant. And in the off-moments when he's not there, he's taking photos of the city, making friends with cab drivers, and eating at every Chicago staple from Hot Doug's to L2O. What a life.
The night I met him, he had just left a 15-hour shift at the restaurant and was going to get a drink at a bar in Wicker before heading home. He said I was the first person he had spoken to outside of Alinea and cabbies. As such, he was hesitant to follow up with me and ask me out for dinner. I wondered why? After all, two weeks was a long time to go without the company of another, in my opinion. But he explained that he felt something odd about our passing, a connection he could not describe - perhaps that it was one of those moments in life where your course is changed, and that was a fearful notion to him, given our circumstances.
Was I really on a date with a guy in THIS city, having THIS conversation? Normally it's about how often one or the other smokes pot or which bars have the best happy hour deals...it's never about fate. Serendipity. Star-crossed lovers. Whatever...
We ended up closing down the restaurant, Bonsoiree (yes, I gave them a 5-star Yelp review in exchange for their hospitality). Four hours, 8 courses (plus a repeat of Dish-5, an amazing scallop), and one bottle of champagne later, I knew a lot about Floris. He runs a beautiful kitchen and leads a staff of 11 workers. He is not married, and has no children. He had a girlfriend who lived with him for about a year, but they have since separated. He has a sister and 3-year-old niece. He drives an Audi back home. He's a champagne connoisseur. He was just getting over a cold. He has a tattoo on his leg (of what? I don't know, I just saw ink through a rip in his jeans). He said that no matter what happens in life, who or what comes or goes, he will always have his sense of "taste" and it will never let him down, which is why cooking and food are his passions.
While these are all the things he told me, what I actually know about Floris for certain did not come from anything he said. It came from what I felt. From that, I am positive that this man is more full of wonder and excitement about life than anyone I've ever met. Hands down. No question. And that, my friends, is a piece of truth that is beauty. Or perhaps a beauty, that is truth. I'll take either one.
When it was my turn to talk, I was surprised that my usual wild antics weren't kicking in. The crude, say-anything Emily took a back seat, and let civilized, calm Emily make an appearance. I was careful with my words, really thinking about the best way to express myself to someone who didn't share my same language. It was nice to pause and articulate, as opposed to rant and rave. I don't get - rather, take - that opportunity often.
Lastly to mention, he said he would be lying if he didn't day dream while riding the elevator to the top of the John Hancock Building earlier that day about what it would be like if I really was someone different - not just the girl who got into the cab after he got out. Would I ever move to Holland? Would I miss my family too much to live there? Hearing that he had pondered these concepts did not freak me out at all. It was probably one of the - if not thee - most romantic moments of my life.
So very clearly, this meal was not about the food. It was not about the braised rabbit, the truffle gnocchi, the sweet potato puree, or the cheesecake. Though my stomach could not have been happier, my heart is truly what was satiated.
Floris and I have plans to dine again together before his departure, as we are determined to give Schwa another go. Despite whether we are greeted this time again with locks & chains - or actual forks & knives, I am simply excited to be on his menu once more.
A week from now, Floris will be thousands of miles away, cooking in his kitchen, driving his Audi, hugging his niece. Meeting and dining with him in the nook of a tiny Chicago restaurant will be like a momentary blip on the radar of my life. I will no longer have the luxury of sitting across from him, watching the excitement in his eyes as he attempts to explain just how exactly he is feeling in a language that is not his own. I will no longer have the honor of dining opposite a top chef just moments before he indulges in a delicacy that this cheeseburger-and-fries girl has most certainly never even heard of. And I will no longer have the privilege of being near someone who is as in love with life as I am at every given moment.
Such is life. My life, at least.
I can tell already that I will miss him, but I know the void I will likely feel will certainly pale in comparison to the luck I do feel that I was ever even able to meet this incredible, incredible man.
Buon appetite.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Failing Quite Phenomenally
Since 2010 began, I ended a relationship everyone always told me to hold onto tightly. I quit my job as a standout copywriter in Nebraska to come to Chicago and swim in a sea with the other million people who work in marketing. I left friends who I’d been close with since my first day of college. I gave up my swanky studio apartment and come-and-go-as-I-please lifestyle to live with my parents for two months, and then alongside two others in a small apartment downtown. And, finally, I was diagnosed with something incurable, yet treatable, that I had never even heard of before receiving “the call.”
Man, I thought John Cusack said 2012 was supposed to be the year shit hit the fan?
Nonetheless, I’m convinced right now that if I wasn’t so worn out (Sunday – Thursday) or drunk (Friday – Saturday) before going to bed, I would have faced the fact that I have yet to feel any degree of at home or at peace since returning to Chicago. But thanks to my daily agenda and social calendar working in tandem, I’ve been able to avoid reality pretty regularly and keep my chin up.
But just when I think it’s all quiet on the crazy front, I remember I have an audience – and they want answers.
Evidently, I’m more or less a Ringmaster coordinating some grandiose circus known as My Life. And everyone from my closest family member to my most estranged acquaintance somehow has a ticket to this madness, whether I like it or not. And in their seats, as they sit back and watch the show unfold, it has come to my attention that they are all expecting the elephant to just flat out squash me, or the ring of fire to take my head off. But, as time goes by, they see one stunt after the next pulled off with precision and poise. And by the end of the show, they want to know how I did it.
Fair enough, considering no one is in a rush to orchestrate any madness of their own, right? So I share. Not just because everyone wants to know what life is like after peril, but because I love storytelling. As such, I found that the more I dished on things like my breakup or an outpatient surgery you’d think was alien research, the more I realized…I am the worst case scenario. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
What I’ve come to realize is that by sharing one fail after the next, I’m really trading you a “heads up” on life in exchange for one of the best compliments one could ever get in life – being called an inspiration. And because I’ve been hearing that a lot lately, I now know there’s something very right about the things that have gone wrong with me.
And that alone puts me at peace, at last.
Man, I thought John Cusack said 2012 was supposed to be the year shit hit the fan?
Nonetheless, I’m convinced right now that if I wasn’t so worn out (Sunday – Thursday) or drunk (Friday – Saturday) before going to bed, I would have faced the fact that I have yet to feel any degree of at home or at peace since returning to Chicago. But thanks to my daily agenda and social calendar working in tandem, I’ve been able to avoid reality pretty regularly and keep my chin up.
But just when I think it’s all quiet on the crazy front, I remember I have an audience – and they want answers.
Evidently, I’m more or less a Ringmaster coordinating some grandiose circus known as My Life. And everyone from my closest family member to my most estranged acquaintance somehow has a ticket to this madness, whether I like it or not. And in their seats, as they sit back and watch the show unfold, it has come to my attention that they are all expecting the elephant to just flat out squash me, or the ring of fire to take my head off. But, as time goes by, they see one stunt after the next pulled off with precision and poise. And by the end of the show, they want to know how I did it.
Fair enough, considering no one is in a rush to orchestrate any madness of their own, right? So I share. Not just because everyone wants to know what life is like after peril, but because I love storytelling. As such, I found that the more I dished on things like my breakup or an outpatient surgery you’d think was alien research, the more I realized…I am the worst case scenario. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
What I’ve come to realize is that by sharing one fail after the next, I’m really trading you a “heads up” on life in exchange for one of the best compliments one could ever get in life – being called an inspiration. And because I’ve been hearing that a lot lately, I now know there’s something very right about the things that have gone wrong with me.
And that alone puts me at peace, at last.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
My Radical Routine Life
Yesterday I did something I typically try to refrain from doing at all costs: I read someone else’s blog. This is hard for me since I get good-writer envy, but I figured I’d tool around with what was out there.
As it turned out, what was one man’s casual transition, was the perfect subject of my latest entry. This particular writer was discussing a very common problem known as “delusional” people. And in his entry, he had commented that “life has a lot of down-time,” before slamming the next disillusioned Joe Schmoe.
Now I could easily go on and create my own post about the delusional people in my life – most recently the middle-aged man who was sitting next to me on the 7:57am Express Metra filling out his “Big D*** Competition” entry form for RAM Night Club. But that would be so rich in content, I’d prefer to put it in a book rather than a blog.
Instead, I’ll focus on that whole “life has a lot of down-time” thing.
How true is that? I mean, for the most part, I’m just hanging. And by “just hanging,” I mean taking part in what has now been established as my routine – a pattern of behavior that goes a little something like this: work, workout, relax, party, relax, repeat.
Not to generalize or anything, but I would imagine if you’re like me, then your life probably looks a little something like that as well – perhaps with a boyfriend/girlfriend and a hobby peppered in here and there. But what I’m starting to notice is that more and more people are for some reason vehemently against the commonality that’s at the root of this all, and therefore, are quick to say that it’s the moments that shake things up in life that “truly define us.”
Unbeknownst to me, I decided to test this theory.
In the last three months I quit my job. Broke my lease. Ended my relationship of two years. Moved to a new state. Started a job in a brand new industry. Moved in with my parents in the suburbs. Moved out of my parent’s and to the city. Went from living alone to living with two people and a dog. Went from driving to work to taking a train. And the list of radical changes goes on…
So now the question becomes, do I feel like these moments defined me? No, they defined hell, actually.
Who likes breaking hearts? How fun is moving? Who would opt to live with their parents after years of being independent? Come on, people. I was thrust out of my perfectly happy life to put up with all this? Can you blame me for not wanting to award these times as the “defining moments” in my life?
In fact, the Oscar ought to go to My Down-Time for best directing my life. Because I’d do whatever humanly possible to not disrupt my down-time – after all, it probably accounts for 90% of my time on earth. The other 10% is reserved for awesome adventures a.k.a., utter disturbances.
It is my guess that most people my age have fallen into some pattern by now. The good ones are called routines. The bad ones are called ruts. And as much as we knock “routine living”, let’s face it, one radical change after the next is not all that it’s cracked up to be. Very rarely is your life full of a series of cave-diving excursions and swimming with the sharks. Unfortunately, these major moments have less fun and more strife attached to them than people prefer to acknowledge.
I don’t know about you, but it is my goal to find a routine that rocks and call it good. If you want to be part of it, let me know.
As it turned out, what was one man’s casual transition, was the perfect subject of my latest entry. This particular writer was discussing a very common problem known as “delusional” people. And in his entry, he had commented that “life has a lot of down-time,” before slamming the next disillusioned Joe Schmoe.
Now I could easily go on and create my own post about the delusional people in my life – most recently the middle-aged man who was sitting next to me on the 7:57am Express Metra filling out his “Big D*** Competition” entry form for RAM Night Club. But that would be so rich in content, I’d prefer to put it in a book rather than a blog.
Instead, I’ll focus on that whole “life has a lot of down-time” thing.
How true is that? I mean, for the most part, I’m just hanging. And by “just hanging,” I mean taking part in what has now been established as my routine – a pattern of behavior that goes a little something like this: work, workout, relax, party, relax, repeat.
Not to generalize or anything, but I would imagine if you’re like me, then your life probably looks a little something like that as well – perhaps with a boyfriend/girlfriend and a hobby peppered in here and there. But what I’m starting to notice is that more and more people are for some reason vehemently against the commonality that’s at the root of this all, and therefore, are quick to say that it’s the moments that shake things up in life that “truly define us.”
Unbeknownst to me, I decided to test this theory.
In the last three months I quit my job. Broke my lease. Ended my relationship of two years. Moved to a new state. Started a job in a brand new industry. Moved in with my parents in the suburbs. Moved out of my parent’s and to the city. Went from living alone to living with two people and a dog. Went from driving to work to taking a train. And the list of radical changes goes on…
So now the question becomes, do I feel like these moments defined me? No, they defined hell, actually.
Who likes breaking hearts? How fun is moving? Who would opt to live with their parents after years of being independent? Come on, people. I was thrust out of my perfectly happy life to put up with all this? Can you blame me for not wanting to award these times as the “defining moments” in my life?
In fact, the Oscar ought to go to My Down-Time for best directing my life. Because I’d do whatever humanly possible to not disrupt my down-time – after all, it probably accounts for 90% of my time on earth. The other 10% is reserved for awesome adventures a.k.a., utter disturbances.
It is my guess that most people my age have fallen into some pattern by now. The good ones are called routines. The bad ones are called ruts. And as much as we knock “routine living”, let’s face it, one radical change after the next is not all that it’s cracked up to be. Very rarely is your life full of a series of cave-diving excursions and swimming with the sharks. Unfortunately, these major moments have less fun and more strife attached to them than people prefer to acknowledge.
I don’t know about you, but it is my goal to find a routine that rocks and call it good. If you want to be part of it, let me know.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Pain? Or party?
For starters: a sore throat always sets in slowly, but surely. It's like one minute you swallow and your fine, and the next you notice a small twinge of pain. Take that as a sign that by morning, it's going to suck and you'll probably have a nosebleed and sinus pressure to accompany it since bad things come in threes. At this point, there's really nothing you can do besides pour yourself a glass of orange juice and stuff a kleenex up your nostrils before bed.
Which brings me to my next point: don't skimp on tissues. Unlike opting for 1-ply toilet paper in a pinch, tissues can not get the shaft. In fact, I've noticed since the last time that I was sick, a new product came out - Puffs Plus with Aloe with Vick's Vapor Rub! These sheets are crazy - that minty, tingly scent hits you like you just shoved your nose in a jar of the good stuff. I don't know why I like it, but I think it has something to do with the fact that I get a small buzz each time I blow my nose. A two-for-one, I love it!
Then: pop the Sudafed. This is the stuff people use to make meth, so it must be good - or at least, strong, which is what you need when your head feels like it's about to explode.
And finally: get a boyfriend/girlfriend. Even the best of friends can make up an excuse why they can't make a run to the grocery store and get you soup when it's -15 degrees out, but the significant other cannot - I repeat cannot - hide from this obligation. One suggestion: always opt for him or her to run to a grocery store over the drugstore - it makes asking for little extras like "cheesecake bites if they've got them" (of course they got them) easier.
All in all, it looks like the remedy to the common cold is a little huffing from the Vick's on my tissues, followed by popping mini-meth, also known as, Sudafed, with a dash of hand-delivered cheesecake bites. Sounds like a party to me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
