Summer Jog

{This entry was orgininally written in 2004. I found it in my old files. I think it is very fitting for the season}

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Summer Jog

I believe the best way to acclimate oneself to summer is to take a jog around. People look strangely on walkers. They feel their privacy is being invaded by your extended presence. Running requires too much concentration, and after many knee problems it is simply out of the question.

So, rejuvenated by knowing I do not have to return to work for two whole days, I slip my orthopedic inlays into my gym shoes, shimmy/wrestle into my out of fashion, but supported sports bra, cover my insecurities with an old t-shirt, store my house key, in the safest place I have, and take off.

I have moved to an area called Wicker Park. I felt it was high time I investigated the namesake park. Across and down a busy street, the ‘park’ comes into view. The path curves around the swings; closed for repairs. It seems like poor planning by the Park District to close a playground at the start of summer. But I continue.

The park itself is resembles the ideal campus quad. There are stone tables with chess boards painted on them. There are picnic tables and shady trees. Everyone who wants a seat has one and everyone who wants a piece of grass has that. In the center of the park is a fountain, which with the right about of wind can spray a mist just when you need it. I quickly learn, the park is not large at all. All that is left is a field where a game I cannot decipher is wrapping up (Frisbee, golf, golf Frisbee – is that something?) and a basketball court, where the evening games are just beginning.

I turn right out of the part. I have no real idea where I am going, but know I want to stay off the main streets. It is amazing how quickly I leave my financial bracket and jog into the big times. I don’t notice this by the gates around the houses, or the fact that yesterday’s newspaper is not strewn across the sidewalk. It is the smell. The smell of Lillys, Black Eyed Susans, and all those other plants my mother spends the summers tending back home. The two foot squared manicured lawns also remind me of rent brake I get for living so close to the el, instead of this urban nirvana hidden from all but the jogger’s view.

I cross a street and the lights change to reveal a new citified haven. These homes come with noise, families, people, and events as I jog by. A family is playing in a slightly larger yard – maybe even 5x5. Bikes are everywhere. Two men, possibly father and son, are working on a car in the street as the kids, too big to enjoy riding bikes on the sideway watch on. My pace is slowed to a crawl; not by a cramp, but the overwhelming aroma of fried chicken. It is not KFC or any other pseudo-fried chicken. It is the real thing. I consider pretending to tie my shoe so I can enjoy the moment of summer a bit longer. But I know even a small pause will intrude on their blissful summer evening. At supper, instead of thanking the cook for the wonderful fried chicken, they will speak of the strange woman who was jogging, and then tied her shoes for twenty minutes, drooling.

I turn right. I know where I am. I am disappointed with this realization. Is there anyway my mind can forget where I am? Is there anyway I can turn off my sense of planning? Is there anyway I can just jog until I turn a corner and find myself at home without knowing it two blocks before?

No. Okay, well at least I know my limits. But I will not let this ruin my first summer evening spying on my neighbors. I remap out my route in my head and cross another busy street. I find the Aldi. It is always good to know were the closest one is.

It is getting harder to figure out the status of the homes I go by now. I jog by what seems like blocks of wooden fencing and see glimpses of beautiful homes. Why would someone want to keep all that beauty to themselves? Where is the joy in denying aesthetic value to another person? But not all the houses are caged. There is a wonderful stone home on the other side of the street. On my next trip, I will jog on that side of the street.

Following my route, I turn right. I see the busy street I must take ahead and dread the ending of this first time out. But the end is postponed by actual human interaction. A woman asks me if this is my dog. At first I think she means the rat-like dog in her arms. Though I am pleased she correctly identified me as a dog person, I was somewhat appalled by the thought of owning what was now licking her strawberry ice-pop. No, she meant the dog by the truck half way down the street. We approach the dog together. We share a feeling of responsibility, but do not want to intrude. We see we are close to a busy street and if the situation was reversed, would like someone to look out for our dog.

Oh, if I had a dog. I wish I had a dog.

We spot tags. We talk to him. He sets off at a nice trot. In my opinion, he knows where he is and since he is heading in the opposite direction of the busy street, I believe he will be okay. The woman and I depart, crisis averted, and I begin the final leg of my journey.

But wait - one more smell of summer - barbequed chicken - on the grill. Since the diners are behind the wooden fence, I take the opportunity to walk by very slowly. I smell the corn on the cob and yellow rice; a side dish combo that accompanied many Sunday meals back home.

I see my apartment, next to the el tracks. I see the grass my landlord is trying to grow in the sunless area between two buildings. I love the summer time in the city.

and now for something terrible

I love the fact that there are still pirates. In a world where everything is being renamed and civil protest can be called an act of terrorism, I love that there are still pirates - more specifically the fact that they are called pirates.

It is terrible what is going on in Somalia and I do not mean to make light of it. But when I see a blip on the TV in the office elevator and the only word I catch is pirate and they aren't talking about Johnny Depp or the latest rendition of Peter Pan - it cracks my shit up.

In a sick and twisted way, the use of the word pirate makes me feel better. Life hasn't changed all that much since swashbucklers and the uncertain life upon the high seas.

On a serious note - these pirates are focusing their pillaging on UN Food Program and Relief cargo ships. They are waiting until the larger vessel is anchored just off the coast and the cargo is put into small boats to be taken ashore. These areas are notorious for pirates and the work of these UN and other aid organizations is heroic.

1/4 life crisis; 1 cup hogwash?

Is a 1/4 life crisis a real thing? The mid-life-crisis has been around long enough for people to consider it a reality. But the emergence of the quarter-life-crisis needs to be acknowledged. But why is the 1/4 life crisis just starting now? Well, I have a few thoughts.

I am sure Stephen Hawkins could prove that life is moving at least twice as fast as it was 50 years ago. So it would make perfect sense that a life crisis of any sort will happen in half the time it once took. How often do you check your email? How often do you check your cell for a missed call? How far (in feet) can you be comfortably a way from your cell phone?

My answers:
At least 20 times a day
At least 100 times a day
No more than 10 feet.

What other generation has had this type of constant contact? What other generation has such pressure to produce, communicate, and show results in such a microcosm? Under such scrutiny? Or am I just a 20-something bitching?

ebb and flow

Ebb and flow is the foundation of the earth. The tides ebb and flow. Emotions ebb and flow. People ebb and flow. Is there anything that is so certain and so set that it does not ebb, then flow?

Give and take is the foundation of life. Sometimes you give before you take. Other times you take before you give. But the exchange of giving and taking occurs every minute of everyday. I can only hope I give as much as I take and ebb as much as I flow, before my life ebbs and flows for the last time.

How fine is the line between civic duty and being a narc?

Tonight I am not sure if I did my civic duty or was a narc. I am in my apartment about 10 minutes ago blogging. It is rare that I am up this late, but I have had a few days off in a row and have been sleeping in and my schedule is totally screwed up.

Anywho...I am blogging and watch crappy network late night TV and the usual din of bar noise gets louder. And then I realize it has been loud for about 5 minutes. I peak out my window and see a largish group of men and women are screaming and confronting each other on the corner of Bissell and Armitage. Do I call 911? The only other time I called 911 was when there was a fire on the CTA train I was on. That was clearly civic duty, but was this?

Was the fight just a verbal spar - frat boys slinging ridiculous insults about the other's girlfriend or mother? Or was it something larger? So, I called 911. After news stories of poor 911 operators and CPD response, my expectations were not very high. But, I was impressed with the operator's direct questions and her earnest concern. And, I was impressed that the CPD showed up within 2 minutes of my call.

I am not ready to start up a neighborhood watch or run for ward representative. And hopefully, I did the right thing tonight. At least it has quited down - maybe I will get some sleep now. One thing is for sure, I really created a traffic jam - 3 cop cars blocking all of Armitage.

ps - Mom, Dad - I really do live in a safe neighborhood. I was not in danger at any point. I love the city!

I am a knee person

A good friend asked me the other day, "What type of person are you? Are you a gut person, a head person, or a heart person?" He was trying to ask what I follow when I have no idea what to do. At the time, I had no answer. But after noodling it for a few days, I have realized I am a knee person.

My heart is often unreliable. It isn't worn on my sleeve. It is an unchangeable secret decoder ring locked in a suitcase chained to my sleeve. Once you are in, there is very little chance of you getting out; very few people have the key that opens that suitcase. I often do not have the key. Therefore, important decision should not be based on a heart that can be so removed from the actual events happening. Having a heart under such security means I am terribly loyal - to a fault. But that is a fault I am okay with having.

My head is judgemental and rash. I don't think I use my head much at all when in flight/fight decision making events. If I don't have time to make a list of the pros and cons, my head is pretty much useless. And my heart seems to have line item veto over my head. Even if my head comes up with a rational response, my heart will 86 it.

My gut is often nauseous, there for a bit preoccupied to really chime in.

So that brings me to my knees. When I need to make a decision that is hard and I am torn between all sides of it, I follow my knees. When am I weak-kneed? When am I standing strong? When do they ache? When do they need to be propped up? When have I taken this metaphor too far? I follow my knees - it isn't easy to explain things to my heart and head (and my gut once it has brushed its teeth). But my knees are the ones who have to help me stand up and move forward. What better to help me through the rough patches of life?

My knees can tell me when it is going to rain, why shouldn't it help me with the tough decisions in my life.

striking gold

Today I experienced the city-dweller's equivalent of striking gold. I found my thought lost 30-day CTA pass. For those who are not familiar with the CTA 30-day pass, it is a $75 pass to all of the Chicago buses and trains. I have unlimited rides for 30 straight days, instead of the $2 per ride; which gets stupid expensive really fast.

I thought I had left my 30-day pass in my coat I dropped off at the dry cleaners Wednesday. I finally decided I was going to dress for spring even if it wasn't spring weather outside. I was going to put my winter clothes away and dress in only summer and spring fashions, even if it meant hypothermia while waiting for the train. I usually keep my pass in my pocket. I thought I check both pockets before I dropped the coat off, but lets be honest, I have never been good at details like that.

But, today as I was cleaning of my kitchen/dinning/crap table, I flipped through a book I have been trying to read for about 3 months. A few days back, Wednesday I guess, I was really committed to trying to read it and must have had it handy when I got on the train. I had stuck my CTA pass in the book as a place holder (pg 2).

At 11am today, I struck city gold! I found my pass. I no longer have to be sure I have 2 singles or jump the turnstile. (I have never done that, I am not nearly that cool.)