The Chicago Chronicles: Entry 1
I’m standing over a cardboard box with an armful of binders and a heart full of excitement and apprehension. This is me, preparing to move away from Nebraska for the first time.
T-minus seven days until Chicago.
I’m going through a closet full of things that I’ve been keeping for a day that will never come. Binders upon binders of academic materials containing everything from astronomy 101 to psychology of perception to a cappella arrangements including “Don’t You Forget About Me” from my days as a Bathtub Dog. I save this stuff for a variety of reasons. The music I save because I have a strong emotional attachment to it, because maybe I’ll perform or teach a cappella music again someday. Even if I never do either, I’ll probably keep that music until I die because it reminds me of the single most fun thing I did in college. It wasn’t the parties, the football games or the girls, it was the moments spent dead sober, crowded around a piano with a bunch of dudes, creating something that UNL never had in its 100+ year history and now has. If in another hundred years the Bathtub Dogs still exist, I may still be remembered as a founding member though I’ll undoubtedly be long dead. That, at least in my mind, makes a binder of music worth hauling to Chicago.
As for the academic materials, astronomy is already in the trash, but the psychology materials are tougher to part with. Pardon me, tougher with which to part. We are, after all, talking about academic materials. For years I’ve been squirreling these things away and waiting for the day I sequestered myself to study for the Psych GRE. I imagined myself spending weeks pouring over all my old texts and notes, becoming a master of information from every corner of the psychological world and assuring such a great test score that grad schools would fairly drool over me. I’d get accepted, become the hot TA that young coeds daydreamed and told their roommates and sorority sisters about, get a PhD, and become the hot professor that young coeds daydreamed and told their roommates and sorority sisters about. I’d teach part time and spend the other time counseling in a suburban clinic, where I’d be the hot doctor that rich, frustrated soccer moms daydreamed and told their fellow soccer moms and former sorority sisters about. A funny thing happened on the way to the collegiate finish line. I realized that I don’t want to go to grad school for psychology, I don’t want to be a TA, I don’t want to be a doctor, and (brace yourself) I don’t need young coeds or soccer moms to daydream about me any more.
No, I didn’t come out of the closet, I just settled down a lot. I lost interest in partying, hooking up, playing the day away, and being a burden on my parents. I realized that I don’t truly want any of the flashy, storybook lives I used to imagine for myself. I just want a life. It doesn’t have to be perfect; I’ll make it happy. I don’t have to have a dream job, whatever that is. I just want a good job. I want a wife who I love and who loves me, kids, a dog, and a place to keep them all warm and dry. If we have food on the table and a vacation once or twice a year, frankly that’s more than I’m given to allowing myself right now.
This move is as much a symbolic journey for me as it is an actual journey. Here I stand, sorting through the remnants of an old life and making two piles, one for old ambitions and one for the practical things I’ll actually take with me and find useful. I’m tossing out metaphorical pipe dreams by the binder-full, and while I do it with a heavy heart today, I know it will grant me lighter shoulders tomorrow. I’ll load a truck, drive 500 miles, unload a truck, and have no choice but to dive headlong into the rest of my life. If I don’t, I’ll be crushed. That’s how the giant-sized grinder of the big city runs, or so I’m told. Keep moving or you’re done before you have time to realize it. For the first time, I’m ready hit the ground at the kind of dead sprint that comes after shuffling your feet for so long you’ve forgotten how good it feels to run. The good news for me is that one can still run with a heavy heart. It's nearly impossible, however, to run with a bunch of old weight on your shoulders.
T-minus seven days until Chicago.
I’m going through a closet full of things that I’ve been keeping for a day that will never come. Binders upon binders of academic materials containing everything from astronomy 101 to psychology of perception to a cappella arrangements including “Don’t You Forget About Me” from my days as a Bathtub Dog. I save this stuff for a variety of reasons. The music I save because I have a strong emotional attachment to it, because maybe I’ll perform or teach a cappella music again someday. Even if I never do either, I’ll probably keep that music until I die because it reminds me of the single most fun thing I did in college. It wasn’t the parties, the football games or the girls, it was the moments spent dead sober, crowded around a piano with a bunch of dudes, creating something that UNL never had in its 100+ year history and now has. If in another hundred years the Bathtub Dogs still exist, I may still be remembered as a founding member though I’ll undoubtedly be long dead. That, at least in my mind, makes a binder of music worth hauling to Chicago.
As for the academic materials, astronomy is already in the trash, but the psychology materials are tougher to part with. Pardon me, tougher with which to part. We are, after all, talking about academic materials. For years I’ve been squirreling these things away and waiting for the day I sequestered myself to study for the Psych GRE. I imagined myself spending weeks pouring over all my old texts and notes, becoming a master of information from every corner of the psychological world and assuring such a great test score that grad schools would fairly drool over me. I’d get accepted, become the hot TA that young coeds daydreamed and told their roommates and sorority sisters about, get a PhD, and become the hot professor that young coeds daydreamed and told their roommates and sorority sisters about. I’d teach part time and spend the other time counseling in a suburban clinic, where I’d be the hot doctor that rich, frustrated soccer moms daydreamed and told their fellow soccer moms and former sorority sisters about. A funny thing happened on the way to the collegiate finish line. I realized that I don’t want to go to grad school for psychology, I don’t want to be a TA, I don’t want to be a doctor, and (brace yourself) I don’t need young coeds or soccer moms to daydream about me any more.
No, I didn’t come out of the closet, I just settled down a lot. I lost interest in partying, hooking up, playing the day away, and being a burden on my parents. I realized that I don’t truly want any of the flashy, storybook lives I used to imagine for myself. I just want a life. It doesn’t have to be perfect; I’ll make it happy. I don’t have to have a dream job, whatever that is. I just want a good job. I want a wife who I love and who loves me, kids, a dog, and a place to keep them all warm and dry. If we have food on the table and a vacation once or twice a year, frankly that’s more than I’m given to allowing myself right now.
This move is as much a symbolic journey for me as it is an actual journey. Here I stand, sorting through the remnants of an old life and making two piles, one for old ambitions and one for the practical things I’ll actually take with me and find useful. I’m tossing out metaphorical pipe dreams by the binder-full, and while I do it with a heavy heart today, I know it will grant me lighter shoulders tomorrow. I’ll load a truck, drive 500 miles, unload a truck, and have no choice but to dive headlong into the rest of my life. If I don’t, I’ll be crushed. That’s how the giant-sized grinder of the big city runs, or so I’m told. Keep moving or you’re done before you have time to realize it. For the first time, I’m ready hit the ground at the kind of dead sprint that comes after shuffling your feet for so long you’ve forgotten how good it feels to run. The good news for me is that one can still run with a heavy heart. It's nearly impossible, however, to run with a bunch of old weight on your shoulders.
posted by Beav at 12:10 PM
0 comments
