The Chicago Trip

I didn’t blog about my Chicago trip last time, either.

I didn’t take any pictures this time, which I’m kind of bummed about.

I think it’s because I never know what to say. I don’t want to say too much, but I feel like saying too little would damage the experience.

It was perfect.

S picked me up at the airport like a gentleman. He was right on time, too. I misread the text directing me to a quieter pick up location, so he had to do an airport loop to fetch me.

Saturday included a grocery store run, sushi and BLTs for brunch (don’t ask – it made me very happy), a softball game – I forgot my sunglasses and nearly died in the heat, and his dad’s birthday party. I was determined not to be stressed, and so I wasn’t. (That’s worked twice this weekend, but failed miserably once. So I’m shooting 2 for 3 on mastering stress.)

It was a very lovely evening. I spent it eating chocolate cake and talking to a million people. I reminded his grandmother that we’d met previously – when she told me she wanted to trip a 4th grader at a basketball game. It was great. I really hope that the consensus was solidly in my favor at the end of the evening.

Sunday was a calm day. I made that watermelon salad and headed to a friend’s BBQ. I forgot how hard it is to park in Edgewater (just south of Rogers Park!). The BBQ had been moved inside, thank g-d, because it was miserably warm outside. I went outside to inspect the new grill, stayed outside for about five minutes, and came directly back in.

Then we headed to his mom’s for dinner. His mom is also wonderful.

After one too many White Russians, I declared that we need to leave “now!” And so he took me home. That’s when, overwhelmed by my own emotions, I began to cry. Such a noob mistake, I can’t believe I did that. At least I made it back to the safety of his house so I won’t be known in his house as “the girl who cried” for the rest of my life.

Upon missing my flight and spending the morning laying on his couch, sweating in the blistering AC-less heat and sipping a Gatorade, I realized that perhaps the night before hadn’t gone so terribly. And by “hadn’t gone so terribly,” I mean exactly the opposite.

In the end, it was nice to have some time to chat about it. Being able to talk things out before you fly a thousand miles is really helpful. I informed him that I am indeed a girl, I do cry sometimes, and that it doesn’t get any worse than what he witnessed (drunk tears are so attractive, let me tell you – nothing says “I’m a great girl, I swear” like puffy, red eyes, frizzy lion hair, and rings of mascara).

His response? “You were mad at me for things I hadn’t even done [yet]!”

Ah, welcome to life with the opposite sex, my dear.

I had forgotten how much I love that city. I love the intensity, the illusion of calm, the people, the nights. I didn’t get to the lake, to the Bean, anywhere, really, but I went everywhere I needed to go. The nights slipped away from me, standing on a rooftop overlooking the city – lights all around, never-ending noise. And the mornings broke beautiful, warm, sensational.
I felt so alive.


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