Worst. Commute. Ever.

July 11, 2011 - The City of Chicago endures a storm that lasts all of about 15 minutes and blows down some tree limbs. Effing chaos ensues for the Chicago Transit Authority. The following is my experience of the events, with all times a.m.

8:10 – It’s suddenly dark out. It was not dark out moments ago. That doesn’t seem good. I’d better get to the bus stop soon.

8:15 – It’s raining so loudly that I thought somebody had dumped gravel down my air conditioner or something. Awesome, this will be fun weather in which to walk to the bus stop. CTA bus tracker is not working. It says there are no busses anywhere. That seems improbable.

8:17 – It’s pouring sideways. In my best Forrest Gump voice, I say, “side-ways rain” to nobody at all and make my way to the bus stop. I have an umbrella, but that doesn’t prevent me from getting drenched from the waist down.

8:19 - Just watched a pigeon fly off a balcony, encounter the wind and rain, and turn back immediately. Then I looked into the Salvation Army store and watched what I hope was a small dog but was probably a rat scurry between clothing racks. The store is open and there are people in there. The end is nigh.

8:28 - Now on the bus, where the lady in front of me tried to scan her credit card instead of her bus pass, then took a solid 5 minutes to find the pass, gather herself, and close her umbrella.

8:33 - A lady who looks like a bigger Queen Latifah (yes, I meant bigger) got on and she is just dripping wet. She has what appears to be a shopping bag full of water, and is purposely dripping it over her forearm and hand. Actually...not so sure it isn't milk. So far, best commute ever.

8:40 - I get to the station at Loyola and a kid with headphones grabs me by the arm as I walk into the station and says, "No trains running." That is terrible for your mood, the opposite effect of when you hear "Long Train Running" by the Doobie Brothers, which just makes everything awesome.

8:48 – I’ve been watching train tracker on my phone, and I think there will be trains soon. I decide to take a bus north to the Howard stop so that I can catch an originating train and not stand at Loyola and watch overcrowded trains go by with no more room for me.

8:58 - Nearly did a coffee spit take because of the girl in front of me, whose keychain reads, "My parents told me I could be anything I wanted, so I became a lesbian."

9:15 – At the Howard station. There is a CTA employee in a camo hat telling everyone there are no trains and we will all have to take the bus. Why is he wearing a camo hat? Because judging by the weather, we all woke up in ‘nam today.

9:20 – I’m getting on a bus that claims to be the replacement for the purple line. I, along with many others, skip the formality of trying to scan our passes and go in the back door of the bus. Nobody tries to stop us. I think they’re probably just glad we aren’t flipping it over and lighting it ablaze.

9:30 – This bus is moving so slowly that I could literally get out and walk faster.

9:35 – The bus is moving faster. North, faster. I got on a bus going in the wrong effing direction. This is what I get for trusting other people and following them. I’m well into Evanston.

9:47 – The bus driver is lost. People up front are shouting directions at him. I will not be at work any time soon. I should have been there 20 minutes ago.

9:53 – People are exiting the bus like rats from a sinking ship. Every time it stops, they want out. I have no effing clue where we are, I'm not sure the passengers exiting know, and obviously the driver doesn't, either. There are downed tree limbs everywhere. The road ahead is blocked by a large branch and a lone Jeep Wrangler, presumably with the Dilophosaur-mangled corpse of Dennis Nedry inside. That's right, it's a Jurassic Park reference.

10:00 – I’m on a street called Green Bay, most likely because by now I’m in Goddamn Wisconsin. That’s fine; I’ve always wanted to see Lambeau.

10:02 – The bus in front of us has attempted a bus-impossible turn and is now blocking the whole intersection. Our driver gets out to go help. We’re next to a Metra station…I should really go take the Metra.

10:05 – The other bus has aborted the turn and pulled away, and our driver comes back. He attempts the same turn. We don’t make it…the first time. On the second try, he gets it, and the passengers applaud.

10:07 – We pull over outside Northwestern’s football stadium. For some reason, we have approached it from the West, even though we’re supposed to be following the Purple Line, which runs east of said stadium. Whatever. Many Northwestern students eagerly exit the bus. I am tempted to join them, but I resist. Northwestern is a good school, the students could probably guide me to a train, but this is getting too funny to quit on it now.

10:10 – Guess we missed a turn, because the bus just backed ½ a block down the street in order to make a left.

10:12 – Finally arrive at the northernmost stop on the Purple Line. FML.

10:13 – There are no trains running here. Why? Because there is no electricity. A man informs me that I’ll have to take a bus back down to Howard, which is precisely the opposite of what I just accidentally did. At least it’s not raining any more.

10:19 – I’m on another bus. I should have gone straight home from Loyola. There are downed tree limbs all over the place. Somebody has placed one of those orange construction “hurdles” with the light on top in front of a freaking huge tree branch that is blocking ¾ of the street. Yeah, thanks, we see it. Chicagoans seem to have a love affair with seemingly-unnecessary signage. I really hope the person who put it there did so because they ran into quite unexpectedly. "Boy, sure sounded like it rained hard a bit ago, huh? I love my new M Class. I just need to plug my phone in...whoops, almost spilled my Starbucks...Hey what the HELL?!? Who put a huge fucking tree branch in the middle of the street? I mean, there should really be a sign or something..."

10:26 – The bus is stopped at a 4-way intersection. The driver seems paralyzed with indecision because the road ahead is closed. An old man stops cleaning sticks out of his yard to come over and give the driver directions. To the right, there is a street sweeper operating. The street looks no different for its efforts.

10:30 – I’m trying to ponder why stucco is so popular in Evanston so that I won’t focus on my rising bladder pressure. I had a huge mug of coffee around 8:20 and have not encountered a bathroom since.

10:34 – I kinda like the houses in Evanston. Might be talked into living there someday.

10:39 – Hey! We just drove past my State Farm agent’s office. Like a good neighbor, State Farm there…with heavy narcotics to make me not hate this! There’s an L train running alongside us on the purple line track. It has all signage rolled to “Not In Service.” Yeah, thanks, we’re aware.

10:42 – Basically if somebody waves or makes a gesture like they want on the bus, the driver picks them up, regardless of our proximity to any kind of logical stopping point. Fortunately, so far that’s only 3 people. A dude with epic dreadlocks gets on.

10:43 – Epic dread guy immediately regretted his decision to get on the bus, evidently. After like a block he saw fit to pull the emergency open handle on the back door and go running off the bus. This triggered some kind of alarm bell that 1) Is annoying 2) won’t stop and 3) won’t allow the bus to move. The driver is trying to tell me to do something to make it stop, but he is so Middle Eastern that I can’t really understand him. He tries shutting some things off and on, including the bus itself. Still ringing. He comes back and messes with the emergency handle. Still ringing. Defeated, he says through his heavy accent, “You have to walk.” Those must have been the magic words, because the bell stops and the bus begins to move again.

10:45 – I’m back at Howard. I desperately need a restroom, but the L stations don’t have restrooms. Probably for the better most times, but right now I wish they had some. I set out in search of a business that will have a public restroom.

10:50 – I have used the restroom in a Subway shop, in spite of myriad signs that say they’re for customers only. As a gesture of good faith, I decide I’ll buy a cookie. I walk up to the cashier and begin browsing the cookies. The cashier, though not helping anyone else, does not acknowledge me whatsoever. I leave.

10:57 – I’m on a Red Line train, an hour and a half after I originally got to the Loyola station. Oh boy, only another hour and I’ll be at work!

11:04 – I finally get around to opening my newspaper. On the front pages is a story about a massive train derailment in India that killed over 30 people and wounded many more. Could be worse, I guess. It smells enough like piss on the red line that I could have skipped Subway and pissed right on the train and nobody would likely have noticed. The CTA Red Line: Rail transit by day, piss-soaked hobo lodging by night.

11:27 – A man is leaving the train wearing a jacket on just one of his arms…presumably because he was only half cold.

11:55 – I’m finally at work, and only just shy of 3 hours after I left. Thanks, CTA! Another great job!

The Chicago Chronicles: Entry 4

I have come to realize how people gradually, over time, become white trash. Much akin to going bald, becoming white trash is often a gradual process that works its way first through oblivion and then through denial, until one day you take a good look at yourself and say, "Well that's not very becoming, is it?" For some this is not the case. Some are born and raised as white trash, not because of their socioeconomic status per se, but because of the patterns of behavior they are encouraged to (or perhaps not prohibited from) display...ing. Forgive me, I parenthesized myself into a corner just then and I'm not sure which verb tense I should have used. For others, they are born somewhere, some way else. They are born into classiness if not wealth and later in life find themselves in a slow, downward spiral. One day, they've either unwillingly or unwittingly (or both) amassed too many checks on the list of white trash experiences and must admit that maybe it's time to start calling Wal-Mart "the store." For me, that day was Saturday, February 7th, 2009.



It started out as a better than an average day. I slept late and woke up to find that the cold snap had snapped and given way to weather that was springlike and beautiful. There were children playing in the park and there was sunshine streaming in the windows. I cleaned up around the apartment and got some laundry done. Anything seemed possible. Next, I started checking boxes on the white trash list without even knowing it. Now I warn you, there's a fine line between "white trash" and "hippie" so you'll need to pay close attention. The warning signs are basically the same, but for hippies add "because you spent all your money on weed" to the end of each indicator. The next thing I did with my day involved driving, which brought me to white trash check box number one:



You own a vehicle that requires nothing less than prayer to start.



I have a car that was once very nice. It's still...kinda nice...on the inside...if I clean it out. As of late, it has become less a car and more a collection of minor malfunctions. Its peculiaries include the following:

A rear passenger lock that is stuck down for reasons unknown.
A new right front tire that replaced the flat mini-spare in the trunk that replaced the flat tire originally on the wheel.
A cracked water pump that only pumps coolant through the engine when I rev it up beyond 1.75 on the tach.
A steering wheel that is in the process of what I can only describe as "humidity-induced molting."
A tail light that collects rainwater and then dumps it out in a slow, tepid stream when the trunk is opened.
A headlight that does not light the ahead.
A hood ornament that rides in the trunk rather than on the hood.
A crack in the windshield that started as a rock chip and continues to spread like a glass infection.
A battery that never has enough juice to operate the power locks, but somehow always just enough juice to start the car.

I'd probably get my car fixed so that it was less quirky, but here's box number two:



You rely exclusively or almost exclusively on your feet and public transportation for your travel needs.



If I didn't live in Chicago this would be a more glaring sign. The fact of the matter is there's noplace to park in this city and the CTA really does go pretty much everywhere, often in better time that I could make if I drove. Plus, if you think constantly having to rev your engine so that it doesn't overheat while you're in stop and go traffic isn't really annoying, you're wrong. Still, though, those who have enough money own cars that run as smoothly as when they were brand new, and they park downtown anyhow because they can afford to shell out thousands a year just for parking. If I had the money I'd probably drive too, because while traffic is annoying, at least you're not sharing your vehicle with 50+ other people, 5 of whom are standing well within your personal "bubble" and a couple of whom are tangibly unaware of social norms related to personal hygiene. Things also probably not located in your vehicle: batshit insane schizophrenic homeless guys shouting conspiracy theories, 3 dudes with their headphones cranked WAY up, or vomit.



Anyhow, getting back to the events of my day...I got in my car, coaxed it into turning over, and headed on down the road. Where, you might ask, was I going? Why, I was going to check off the following box:



You shop at Aldi.



If you live in a region of the country that doesn't have Aldi...you're missing out. The first thing you must know about Aldi is that more essential to what you take away from the store is what you bring to the store. If you do not come to Aldi with backpacks a-plenty and a quarter, woe unto you. You'll need the quarter to unlock your shopping cart, which is chained to all the other shopping carts. This is an anti-theft measure, and it works. The cost of keeping a shopping cart safe from the drunk and/or homeless? One quarter, evidently. You'll need the backpacks because Aldi does not supply you with bags in which to carry your groceries. They have bags, but you have to buy them, and nobody who shops at Aldi is willing to pay for something as frivolous as a shopping bag.



Once inside, you will find a wonderland of cheap shit you never dreamed possible. If I could sum up Aldi in one sentence, it is this: Cross breed the dollar store with Wal-Mart and a thrift store and then make it exclusively for groceries, and you get Aldi. If you've come in search of name brands, you're probably going to leave disappointed. However, you will be THRILLED if you've come to react to food items by mumbling aloud, "Oh wow, look how cheap that is! That's like, 3 meals for $2.30! I wonder if it's as good as (insert name brand here). I wonder why it isn't refridgerated like (insert name brand here). "Also, come to Aldi if you get a kick out of crazy people. Just try not to make eye contact with anyone and for the love of God don't cut in the check out line, or you'll be drawn and quartered by an angry mob of single mothers, immigrants, and cat hoarders.



Do not, and I cannot stress this enough, DO NOT come to Aldi on or immediately after the first of the month. If you need me to explain this to you, you'll never understand, and also you're probably Republican.

I made a jolly little haul at Aldi, took it home in my backpacks-a-plenty, and managed to avoid doing anything particularly white trash until around 11:15 PM. At that point, I charged beyond any warning signs that I might be edging toward white trash status and went straight over the edge. Around 11:15 PM on Saturday, Febrary 7th 2009, I busted out with this little gem:

You've gotten into a heated argument with your neighbors about the trash cans.

Earlier in the day, I walked outside to find that our trash cans were all up close to the back of the house. That in and of itself was not cause for alarm, but that just wasn't where we've ever kept them and there was no reason that my landlady or the upstairs neighbors would have moved them. I thought it a bit mysterious, but ultimately I moved them back to the space in which they've always lived, which is in the alley, up against the park fence.

I came back in and asked my roommate if she knew anything about the trash cans. She indicated that she was aware of their relocation and found it just as odd as I did, but had no further details.

Well, come 11:15 PM, she and her boyfriend were in the living room when I heard her yell, "Somebody is moving our trashcans again!"

Normally I am not a confrontational person. To be honest, I don't even like most reality TV shows because I can't stand all the bickering that goes on. For some reason, though, something within me snapped.

"Oh, fuck that!" I yelled as I leapt up out of my chair and headed down the hall to the back of the house.

Lock one unlocked, door one open. Through the laundry room.

Lock two unlocked, lock three unlocked, door two open.

Lock four unlocked, lock five unlocked, door three open. I stormed outside.

At this point you need to know of a particular vocal talent of mine. I have a yell that is so loud, sharp, and fierce that it stops everyone in their tracks when I turn it loose, regardless of who they are or what they're doing. I have used it successfully as a lifeguard at public pools, as a camp counselor and while wrangling drunk friends downtown. My children will someday come to know and fear this yell.

"HEY!!!"

A middle-aged man of medium height nearly jumps out of his skin and freezes in place, along with the trashcan he was wheeling. His eyes are wide and I can practically see the adrenaline shoot into his system from how badly I've just startled him. So far, so good. I harness the element of surprise and continue my attack.

"What the fuck are you doing?!?"

"I'm putting these trash cans where they belong!"

There is another man with him. The second man is younger, but of smiliar build. He seems immediately concerned that I will kick the first man's ass at any moment and rushes to his side. Normally, it would worry me to be outnumbered in a tense situation. I am not at all threatened by these two, though. I'm not sure why, there's just something that suggests to me that they've never been in a fight in their lives and they're not gonna start now.

It then comes out that these two had taken it upon themselves to move our trash cans from their previous location to a much less convenient location, despite the fact that said cans had been there for as long as anyone can remember. Their reason? There were too many trash cans lined up behind their garage and it caused them difficulty in getting their respective, matching Audis into their garage when the alley got icy after a recent snowstorm. Mind you, our trashcans were not even the ones in front of their garage. Those belonged to somebody else. I'm baffled at the nature of the problem and how they arrived at their preferred solution. They chose not to get a shovel and clear the snow/ice away, not to put some salt down, the best course of action was to eject our trash cans, which sit at the end of the row, from the trash can club so that they could slide all the others down and give themselves another few feet of maneuvering space for Audi one and Audi two.

It was at this point that I decided I didn't care that much about the whole issue, but I'd be damned if I wasn't gonna piss these two off enough that it wouldn't be worth it to them to mess with the trash can arrangement ever again. First I offered them lessons on how to park their Audis, which neither of them seemed to appreciate, especially the first guy. He took a couple steps closer, which prompted guy two to come over and grab him by the jacket and try to move him away from me...but not because there was any indication whatsoever that violence was nigh. Something was a little peculiar, and then he uttered the words, "Tom, let's just go inside. Come on, this isn't worth it, let's just go in."

I detected a bit of a lisp, and then the pieces started coming together. Two middle-aged men live together in Lakeview. They drive matching audis. They don't seem willing or able to use a shovel or a bag of salt. One gets upset and the other tries to soothe him. One wants to argue with the neighbor kid and the other just wants to go inside and go to bed. Yep, we've got gays. No wonder I wasn't afraid of this turning into a fight. Gay guys don't fight, they just throw fits. If they were lesbians, I'd definitely be worried about getting punched in the face, and hard too. Then again, if they were lesbians we wouldn't be having this argument because they'd be able to park their pickups in any weather and they'd have shoveled the whole alley.

Meanwhile, Tom didn't want to come inside. He wanted to call me, among other things, "...an arrogant little shit," presumably because I had moved in some months ago and left our trashcans where I'd found them. In Tom's eyes, I was a real asshole, and I intended to keep it that way. When he upped his attempts to gain my sympathy, I stole a page from my sister's playbook. She has a penchant for busting people's balls when they vent about trivial crap they know doesn't really matter, and the way she does it will make you want to goddamn kill her when she does it to you.

"It was really bad the other night and I couldn't get my car in the garage, I had to park in the street!"
"Awwwwwww, the street? Did you have to park in the street? You poor thing! That must have been so awful for you. I park in the street all the time because I don't have a garage, so I know how hard that can be on a person, to have to park in the street. I bet you worried about your Audi all night!"

Mission accomplished. Both Tom and his partner were furious that I'd mocked their pampered dilemma, partly out of embarassment, but mostly out of how condescending I'd been about it.

"Oh, fuck you! You little...fuck you! You...fuck you!"

From there, the argument continued at least another five minutes and involved a lot of declarations that I was little and arrogant, as well as a shit, and demands that I wake my landlady up even though she's old and it was practically midnight. Tom also threatened to call the police a few times, which seemed to worry his partner a little more every time, despite the fact that it didn't worry me in the slightest. I'm not a lawyer, but I've never seen somebody arrested for telling his neighbors not to come onto his property and move their trashcans around.

Finally, Tom did "just go inside" and I moved the trashcans back to their original home, where they have since remained.

Some minutes later, I came to realize how white trash it was that I'd just been in a shouting match with my neighbors over garbage cans, at which point I launched this investigation into which other areas of my life may also be white trash. So far, I've only come up with one more:

You wear the same one or two pairs of pants to work not because it's a uniform, but because you can't afford more pants.

The Chicago Chronicles: Entry 3

November 4, 2008

I am sitting in the living room of my Chicago apartment, planted in a hand-me-down recliner. Despite the unseasonable warmth of the evening, I am draped in an old, ratty, Chicago Bulls blanket I have cherished since childhood. Despite the chair’s reclining capabilities, I am literally on the edge of my seat, leaning forward and staring, transfixed, at my television. Despite having heard for weeks that it was likely to occur, I struggle to comprehend the magnitude of what is taking place. I am witnessing live the most momentous speech delivered on American soil since Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. marched on Washington nearly half a century ago and proclaimed, “I have a dream.”

My jaw hangs slack with sheer awe at the man who now delivers an equally simple, powerful message. The cameras cut to a crowd of well over a hundred thousand people—people of all ages and colors—who have gathered in Chicago’s Grant Park to hear his words. They stare up at him with the kind of wonder one would expect to see on the faces of children if they caught Santa Claus emerging from their chimney late on Christmas Eve. As the cameras pan across the sea of humanity, many people have tears streaming from their wide eyes as the man in whom a nation has placed its hopes speaks to them the three simple words a terrified nation so desperately needs to hear.

Elsewhere, people who had taken to the streets in droves presently cease their jubilant noisemaking and stand as if rooted immovably to the very earth to hear his message. Some are too young to understand what they are witnessing. Others are too old and have seen too much to have allowed themselves to believe this day could ever come. At this moment, they are all joined in reverent silence, gazing into the sincere eyes of a man who is telling the story of one woman from Atlanta, Georgia.

“She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing: Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons -- because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin. And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America -- the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.”

As I hear him speak anew the words he has spoken countless times throughout his campaign, this time they are more than just a slogan. This time, they seem to emanate from somewhere deep in our nation’s tumultuous past. From the very roots of the American dream and struggles of the revolution they originate, and come rushing forth, echoing through the halls of history, until they fall upon my ears with a force that sends chills shooting down my spine.

“At a time when women's voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs, a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.”

At once, without prompting, the audience of 125,000 answers him just once, in unison, “Yes we can.” They do not shout, they do not chant. Their words are spoken with the tranquil conviction of a congregation that closes a prayer by saying, “Amen.”

“When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.”

Another chill washes over my body, and my eyes begin to well up with tears. Though I am alone in my apartment, I find myself murmuring in response....

“Yes we can.”

“She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that ‘We Shall Overcome.’ Yes we can.”

“Yes we can.”

“A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.”

“Yes we can.”

Tears stream down my cheeks. Every time he speaks these words, I find something within me brightening that had been dark, and something becoming emboldened that had been fearful.

“America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves -- if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment.

This is our time, to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth, that, out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope. And where we are met with cynicism and doubts and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can.”

These have been the words of the first African-American President of the United States of America on the night of his election. In New York, people laugh and embrace in Times Square and Harlem. In front of the White House, they cheer boisterously. Here in Chicago, my upstairs neighbors are applauding in their living room. All around America, people are smiling and dancing in the streets. The network cuts to a live shot of Kenya. People there, too, are dancing and cheering. From my living room, I watch a world united in celebration and realize that I just witnessed one of the single most profound events in American history. Many years from now I will be able to tell my grandchildren that I was alive on this day, and that I was among those who turned out in record numbers to help write the next chapter in our nation’s story.

Although I am only 26 years old, and although I had hoped to be wrong, I had long doubted I would live to see an African-American elected president. Tonight, Barack Obama has shown me that I was wrong to be doubtful, for the reasons that we are the same far outweigh the reasons that we are different, and that the reasons to give up pale in comparison to the reasons to persevere. He has won in a landslide; judged not by the color of his skin but by the content of his character; not rejected for who he is not, but embraced for who he is.

He is a man who sees a country sick of being divided and reminds us that, “out of many, we are one.” He is a man who hears the fears of the people and reminds us that, “while we breathe, we hope.” Mostly, at a time when millions are realizing the American dream has been rapidly turning into a nightmare, we need to know that we can still be the nation that battles tirelessly against injustice, that we can still be the nation that never stops fighting when times are tough, and that we can still be the nation that bands together to help one another in times of despair.

With confidence in his gaze and conviction in his voice, assures us, “Yes, we can.”

All over the country, people of all ages and races stand shoulder to shoulder with tears in their eyes and faith in their voices and reply in unison, "Yes, we can."

The Chicago Chronicles: Entry 2

This post has been deleted because it was boring, it wasn't funny, and it sucked.

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.

Will Hunting, Minus the Genius

5/17/08

It has been six days since the girl I've loved moved away. I loved her sooner and I loved her more deeply than any girl in my sordid past. That being said, I endorsed the entire concept of her moving away. Sometimes, in the deep, stupid recesses of my mind, I used to hope she would take her leave. If my mind was a pasture, our relationship was the grass on which we stood, moving apart from each other was the fence, and on the other side, well...you know what they say about the other side.

In the six days that have passed, I've slept poorly, eaten rarely and cried a lot. When I haven't been actively engaged in weeping or whining, I've been second-guessing every thought I ever had in my entire life. When I haven't been doing that, I've been second-guessing the reported value of every emotional high and low in human history. As the second guesses of original guesses as to how satisfying my life was supposed to be to this point began to reach somewhere into the hundreds of millions of guesses, I stumbled upon the closest thing I've found to a real, true answer in years. Last night, around 11:00 PM as I drove home from my shitty job, the great prophet John Mayer spoke to me and told me that I am not alone in my questioning of the human experience.

As I drove, I was listening to Mayer's song, "Something's Missing", a song I've never liked all that much. At the time I marveled at how a change of emotional state can bring new meaning to a song that never meant much to me, but I forgot all about it shortly after getting out of the car. I went to sleep last night to the sounds of Sportscenter, and awoke this morning, for reasons unknown, with Starland Vocal Band's "Afternoon Delight" stuck in my head. It should be noted that I have not heard the song since the last time I watched Anchorman, and I never hear that song over the course of a normal day. When I arrived at work this morning, the first song playing in the kitchen was none other than Starland Vocal Band's "Afternoon Delight." Just a funny coincidence? Perhaps, but it made me wonder why I would awake with that song stuck in my head and then immediately hear it at work...and why music has always been one of the forces that speaks to me far more than the average person.

As I spent the early parts of this Saturday night exchanging text messages with my departed love and watching a nearly full moon rise in the Nebraska sky, I had a snippet of John Mayer's song "Why Georgia" stuck in my head. It looped in the back of my mind unnoticed--as most of my mental music does--while I lamented my inability to feel "ready" to face the rest of my life, settle down, commit to a long term relationship, etc. I wondered when I'll ever know that I've found whatever it is I want out of life, and why it's so fucking hard to be certain that anything in life is worth doing. Just then...in the forefront of my mind...the doucheag prophet spoke again, and louder.

Might be a quarter life crisis
or just the stirring in my soul.
Either way I wonder sometimes
about the outcome
of a still verdictless life.
Am I living it right?

I rush into my room to have a religious experience. If the douchebag prophet John Mayer has spoken to me, then the all-knowing will be able to answer my burning, new question. I settle myself into my chair and prepare to have an epiphany. I ask the all-knowing to tell me if my suspicions are correct. The all-knowing has not failed me before, and I am confident that it shall reward me once more with the gift of wisdom. Sure enough...the all-knowing, Wikipedia, has an answer for me.

I read the answer.

I am floored.

I wasn't aware.

I hadn't even suspected...but I am caught in the swirl of a maelstrom of existential chaos that I neither could have expected nor prevented.

I'm having a quarter-life crisis.

I read the wiki article in fascinated horror. It draws on allegedly credible sources and tells me, much like the time I found out as a 5th year college senior that I have ADD, any therapist worth two shits could have told me this. I hastily shove aside my sense of irony at having my BA in psychology and not having noticed my own quarter life crisis...or even having known what a quarter life crisis was. There is no time for irony. I'm entirely too relieved. I'm not the only aimless person in the world, or the only one who has doubts and apprehensions and sabotages things for no apparent reason! There are all kinds of people my age who deal with this, and it's so normal that the experts even gave it an unoriginal name! It's so cliché that John Mayer put it in a song! This is a Godsend! Thank you John Mayer! Thank you Starland vocal band! Thank you Wikipedia!

The article tells me that there is nobody more qualified to be labeled mid-quarter-life-crisis than me. A list of the following crisis characteristics is provided:

-feeling "not good enough" because one can't find a job that is at one's academic/intellectual level -frustration with relationships, the working world, and finding a suitable job or career
-confusion of identity
-insecurity regarding the near future
-insecurity concerning long-term plans, life goals
-insecurity regarding present accomplishments
-re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships
-disappointment with one's job
-nostalgia for university, college, high school or elementary school life
-tendency to hold stronger opinions
-boredom with social interactions
-loss of closeness to high school and college friends
-financially-rooted stress (overwhelming college loans, unanticipatedly high cost of living, etc.)
-loneliness
-desire to have children
-a sense that everyone is, somehow, doing better than you

If, after reading that list, you're wondering if there's any of those criteria I do not meet, the answer is no. No, I hit each individual criterion out of the park like a steroid-fueled Barry Bonds crushing a baseball gently lobbed by the weakest-armed pitcher in the little league ranks. Let's break down some highlights from that list.

Feeling "not good enough" because one can't find a job that is at one's academic/intellectual level:

At age 25 (soon to be 26), I wait tables. Take a moment and let that sink in. I'm now forced to round my age up to 30, and I am a waiter. Growing up, I was in the "gifted" program at school and scored well above the 90th percentile in everything for which they could standardize a test. Laziness precluded would-be academic success later in life, but it didn't stop me from being kickass at Jeopardy in my spare time or dominating tests for which I had not studied in my scheduled time. To say that waiting tables is not at my academic/intellectual level is to say that the election of George W. Bush to consecutive terms as US president may not have been a bright spot on democracy's resume'. I don't know how much time I'd have to spend in the basement of Lazlo's huffing sterno before it made my job coincide perfectly with the apex of my intellectual potential, but I'd guess it's longer than the expected lifespan of the average male.

Confusion of identity:

I have little or no ability to convince myself that who I am is ok and I can get by for the rest of my life on being basically that same person with situational adjustments. This is because I have a brilliant vision of the man I will someday be. Permit me, if I may, to share that vision with you. I will someday be a fantastically rich, happy, successful man who has an absolute blast 365 days a year along with his supermodel, supergenius wife with whom he never fights and two or three beautiful, perfectly behaved children and two big dogs that conveniently cease to exist (the dogs, not the children) when it's time to go on vacation...which is most of the time. The man I will someday be has the greatest job on earth. That job is simultaneously relaxing and fast-paced, travel-oriented and centered entirely in one city, and also indoors and outdoors. The man I will be cries only at movies because those are the only times he is exposed to sadness, and he lives in a world where nothing is daunting. He also has a harem of beautiful women, and his wife is o.k. with it because she uses it, too, which is hot. Laugh at the above if you like, but read it also with a sense of pity, because it's only somewhat tongue-in-cheek. I have heinously unrealistic expectations about my future, and the weight of those expectations crushes my ability to be confident in who I am or build some sort of normal, logical life, one normal, non-terrifying step at a time.

Insecurity regarding the near future:

Today it was 82 and Sunny out. I wanted to sit by the pool after I got off work, but I didn't. I didn't know if I should read a book by the pool or just lie there, if I'd get "good sun" even though I'm so pale that any sun will make me noticeably darker within 20 minutes, or if the water would be too cold to be refreshing if I was too hot just lying in the sun and wanted to jump in. Additionally, I was unsure as to whether I should wear my sunglasses and risk a raccoon tan or just squint. In the end, I opened the windows and watched TV on my old, uncomfortable futon. Read that paragraph three times and tell me I'm not fucking nuts and ragingly insecure.

I'm supposed to be at a going away party right now. Instead, I'm writing a blog. I'm not sure if I'll have fun there, if there will be enough people I know, or if I should drink any beer or not. I, who have sang for auditoriums full of strangers and delivered an impromptu eulogy at a funeral for a kid I barely knew, am not sure I can handle sitting around at a bar with some friends. If I can't handle this, how am I supposed to handle my...

Insecurity concerning long-term plans, life goals:

For at least three years I've wanted to move to Chicago. I have multiple reasons for wanting to go, and it's the only thing I've ever felt like I *have* to do or I'll regret it. I have absolutely nothing still keeping me in Nebraska. I'm sick of being here, and yet I'm procrastinating the necessary details of setting up the move. What if I don't like it? What if I can't find a roommate and I get my own apartment and stay in all the time not having fun? What if I do find a roommate and we don't get along? What if I can't find a job? Where will I park the truck when I move in? Seriously, my apprehension about finding a place to park the moving truck is probably #2 on my list of worries about moving. I'm not sure what #1 is.

Along with moving out of Nebraska, I'm not sure what I should do for a career or whether I'll ever be unselfish enough to participate in a successful marriage. My fear of a failed marriage is fast becoming epic as I watch the people who rushed into young marriages during their college years realize their misery and get divorced. I feel badly when I know I've caused somebody to sit without a refill for very long. I cannot begin to imagine the remorse I'd face if I knew I'd agreed to marry somebody and then not been able to follow through on the deal.

Boredom with social interactions:

Everyone bores me. I don't care how interesting they reportedly are or actually are, they bore me. The details of their life bore me, the stories of things they've done bore me, and the stories of things they want to do bore me. Whatever anyone feels like doing with their night, odds are I do not feel like doing the same thing. It’s not that they’re bad people, and it’s not that they’re boring. I could not, for the life of me, tell you what I do want to do; I just don't want to do whatever you're doing. I don't know why, but I blame it on Lincoln whenever possible. There's not much to do, and while I never particularly mind whatever I end up doing, I invariably lack enthusiasm for the idea of it. Deep down, though, I know that it's not Lincoln's fault. I'm just bored because I'm boring, and I'm boring because I have unfairly high expectations about how much fun I should be having.

-nostalgia for university, college, high school or elementary school life

My friend Ben and I used to say that our one greatest wish in the world was to wake up tomorrow on the first day of high school, knowing what we know now. I now realize that I do not wish for that any more. I want to wake up on the first day of first grade, knowing what I knew up through...maybe sixth grade. Any time life gets hard, I long desperately for the days when I got up, my mom cooked me breakfast, I went to school, and despite three recesses, 3:30 PM felt like the greatest possible realease to freedom in human history. I would ride the bus home, watch cartoons while eating a snack, and play the rest of the day away until it was time to put on my PJs. After that, I'd watch boxing on the couch with my dad and he'd feed me bites of his ice cream. I'd fall asleep, he'd carry me to bed, and the next day would be the same. I didn't have a real worry in the world. I was afraid of the basement and that was about it. There was no fear of failure, rejection, or mediocrity. I didn't pay for anything, I didn't have to impress anyone, and there was nothing that was so bad that Mommy couldn't fix it with a hug and a chocolate shake. Some might say that it's maladaptive and crazy to want to go back to childhood. I say if you don't wanna be 8 again, you're crazy.

-financially-rooted stress (overwhelming college loans, unanticipatedly high cost of living, etc.)

Gas is $4.00 a fucking gallon. Don't get me started...

-re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships

Now we arrive at the real kicker. I silently, unwittingly fell so easily into my crisis that I never had time to stop and realize that my relationship was being sucked in right along with it. I didn't evaluate my own life and make concrete plans to improve it, I just knew that it sucked and blamed my job and my hometown...or so I thought. As it turns out, the list of people, places or things I unfairly blamed for my own unhappiness was three items long and I didn't know it until last night. Person/place/thing three on that list? My girlfriend.

Back in December, I was feeling pretty good about having finished my last classes and finally finishing college. It was Christmas time and I was making great money at work, and I was deeply in love with my girlfriend. Over the rest of the winter, I made zero attempts to set up my life after college, I got sick of my job, and I started to use my relationship as the be-all, end-all of things that were positive in my life. In fairness to me, I was only following the example my girlfriend had set for me a semester earlier. That's a lot of pressure to put on another person, and it soon became evident that neither of us could handle that pressure infinitely. I became distant, and she became nervous. Her nervousness made her needy. Her neediness made me crazy. When I feel crazy, I need a little distance. See a pattern here? Yeah, well...not any more you don't.

Now she's gone. She's gone and I'm writing at 4:00 in the morning because if I don't stay busy, I'll focus on how much I miss her. I'll watch the battle unfold in my mind one more time as the feeling that I've made a mistake clashes once more with the feeling that neither of us was ready to really settle down and that we both needed to be apart. Time and again they've clashed, and "we need to be apart" wins every time. She and I both know it, but I can't shake the feeling that things might have been okay if I weren't wriggling to escape the grip of this stupid crisis.

I've spent the time since she left thinking about a lot of things, and the only one I've resolved is that there is absolutely no way I can continue to let my life stagnate like this. It's no wonder my relationship was failing, because my whole life right now is a failure. How could I have felt happy? Nothing was right with my life. It's not that I don't feel I've accomplished anything. I have accomplished a lot and I know it. It's that I know I'm not accomplishing anything any more, and that's unacceptable to me. I'm sick to death of being scared of going forward, of having nothing going on but work and television, and of endlessly circling the runway of the rest of my life and I just won't do it any more.

This year, when the leaves start to fall off the trees in Nebraska, I won't be here. When the Huskers take the field, I'll be watching from a sports bar in Chicago. When Lazlo's promotes another server to the coveted title of "head wait", I won't be sitting down across from him to bank out at the end of the night. I've got too much to do. I've got too many dreams, too much desire to be busy, and too much talent to stay here living such a small life. There's nothing wrong with small lives, because they make the world go 'round, but if only for right now, I need something bigger. As I write, Good Will Hunting is playing behind me. I stop long enough to watch a dialogue that suddenly resonates within me all the way to my very core:

Chuckie: Look I’m your best friend so don’t take this the wrong way, but in 20 years if you’re still livin’ here, comin’ over to my house to watch the Patriots game, still workin’ construction I’ll fuckin’ kill you. That’s not a threat I mean that’s a fact. I’ll fuckin’ kill you.
Will: Fuck are you talking about?
Chuckie: Look, you’ve got something none of us have.
Will: Oh come on, why is it always this, I mean I fuckin’ owe it to myself to do this or that, what if I don’t want to—
Chuckie: No, nah nah, fuck you. You don’t owe it to yourself. You owe it to me. ‘Cause tomorrow I’m gonna wake up and I’ll be 50, and I’ll still be doin’ this shit. And that’s alright, that’s fine. You’re sittin’ on a winning lottery ticket. You’re too much of a pussy to cash it in, and that’s bullshit, cause I’d do fuckin’ anything to have what you got. So would any of these fuckin’ guys. It’d be an insult to us if you’re still here in 20 years. Hangin’ around here is a waste of your fuckin’ time.

There it is. I sent the girl I love away with the understanding that I'm not good enough for her unless I can figure my own life out. This isn't about me any more. Now I owe it to her. I made a promise that I would get the hell out of dodge and make something more than a waiter out of myself. Maybe I shouldn't put so much stock in the worlds of Ben Affleck, but I dunno what it is...there's just something about the prophecy of douchebags that really speaks to me lately.

The Anticipation is Worse than the Impact

4/16/08

I’ve known this was coming for longer than I’ve been willing to admit to myself, let alone to her. I knew it was coming, but somehow all the knowledge in the world doesn’t soften the blow when bad news arrives. Nobody has to spell it out for me. I can say it to myself, loud and clear. “Bad news, sport, you’ve failed.” I’ve failed. I’ve failed myself and worse yet I’ve failed her. My inability to classify yet another phenomenal woman as “girl of my dreams” has subjected her to months of the sinking feeling that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with a man who, when asked if he felt the same, could eventually muster no better than, “I don’t know.”

Those three words spit at me as I read them now. “I don’t know.” I stammered like a scolded child when she finally asked me to stand up and speak like a man. I flash back to every time I did something profoundly stupid as a kid and had some adult question my motive.

“Why did you steal that candy bar?”
“I don’t know.”

“What do you want?”
“…I don’t know.”

Coward. You did too know, and you didn’t have the stones to tell her. You want to leave. You want to go to Chicago. You want to live the big life in the big city, you want to perform, and you want to do it alone. That sound about right? You’re not ready to settle down. You’re not ready to have a routine, a career, a dog, two cars in one garage, two people in one bed, and two souls in one life every day for the rest of your life. Not yet, not her, not now. No matter how amazing she is, how worthy, how sweet or how beautiful she is day in and day out, it’s just not enough for you for some reason. Are we hitting the nail on the head?

At once I am ashamed. The sick realization that I’ve hurt her settles in. I remember why I kept my silence…it’s because I do love her. I truly do love her, I’d lay down my life for hers, and I wanted to be able to do anything else if it meant I wouldn’t have to make her cry. The last thing I want is to make her cry, to make her face the kind of hurt I’ve faced before. I begin to wonder how many hours I’ll spend with The Barenaked Ladies’ “Break Your Heart” cycling over and over in my mind. What else was I supposed to do? She lives with me in my tiny apartment which is located in a town where neither of us has anything more than casual friends and a shitty job. The only difference was that I finished college a semester sooner than she did. She needed to be here, she needed to be safe and she needed to finish school. I couldn’t just throw her out. She had nowhere to go. Certain future or no, I can’t do that to somebody I care about.


Sure enough, here come the lyrics:

…the weakest thing I’ve ever done was to stay right by your side, just like this time…

Before last night I had been excited about the promise of things to come. Spring in Nebraska affects everyone tangibly. People become restless. The streets and sidewalks flood with kids, dogs, and people who you can bet wouldn’t be out running if it were 65 degrees outside every day. Students get distracted, skip glass, and manage to graduate anyhow. You can literally feel everything around you coming back to life after another long, Nebraska winter. Flowers bloom, and then the population of Lincoln plummets in May as scores of college kids leave their college town to do things like farm, lifeguard, or get a “real” job. For the first time in four years, I was going to be one of those kids. I wasn’t going to spend another boring summer in Lincoln. I’d have my diploma, and it would finally be time to get out. As I looked east to greet a sun that rose ever earlier in the April morning, I could imagine the Sears Tower dominating a Chicago skyline and begging me to come get a taste of the constant electricity and opportunity of the big city. The countdown had been on. I had been excited.

Now, a new countdown is on, and it makes every minute feel like 20 and every hour feel like at least two days. If you fancy math, that multiplication is all wrong. If you’ve ever dealt with anything that deserves to be called “heart wrenching” then it makes perfect sense. Our relationship as we know it ends in three weeks when she finishes class and leaves. Truthfully, it ended yesterday with a text message I received at work. All it said was, “FYI, we need to talk.” Just like that, I had drinks to fetch, food to serve, and when I got home, a heart to break. I fetched the drinks, served the food, and broke her heart. We crawled into bed and lamented our inability to fall asleep. Eventually that segued into me lamenting my inability to be for her the perfect man she deserves. How do you tell a great girl who would gladly keep trying that you’re just not perfect for each other?

God love her, she accepted everything with a cool head and an open heart. What an incredible thing to do. What a show of class and maturity from a classy, mature girl. What more could I ask than her calm understanding and unconditional love? What more could I possibly need? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!?

Frustration washes over me in waves, and each time it crashes down and soaks me in tears, she wipes them away and tells me that I’m going to find somebody who is perfect for me. She kisses me and tells me it’s going to be o.k., which makes me feel even worse because she’s being absolutely amazing and she deserves the very best life has to offer. It makes me feel like a failure because I wanted to be the very best life had to offer her and I couldn’t. I tried to do everything that one is supposed to do to make a relationship work. Anytime things got tough, we talked it out and we worked on it. I didn’t stay out late, I didn’t get drunk, I didn’t fool around with other girls and I didn’t put other aspects of my life ahead of our relationship. I spent time with her, I told her I loved her, I brought her flowers and I scratched her back until she fell asleep. I was a great man to her and she was a great woman to me. Mathematically, it was all correct. Meanwhile, back in the real world, it all adds up to two hearts that are decidedly wrenched.

I suppose some updating is in order. After my last tearful, whiney, self-piteous post, she stayed. She stayed for me. She stayed with me. Although it would have been tough last May to call the whole thing off, we’d have both been fine in very little time at all. As it was, she scrapped whatever plans and agreements she’d made, and she stayed with me to see what we could become. She made a brief trip to take her best friend to the airport, and then returned to move in with me. At first it was a little odd to have a bathroom full of beauty supplies and more shampoos and soaps than my shower could hold, but in time I bought a shower caddy and came to find comfort in the tangible fullness of my apartment. It went well with the tangible fullness of my heart. We went to sporting events together, we cooked meals, we did laundry and we made plans to move out of Nebraska together after she graduated.

Over time, though, something went wrong with me. A full apartment turned to a crowded one in my mind. My full heart sprung a leak somewhere, and despite my best efforts I just couldn’t get it to stop and fill back up again with the unconditional, tireless love I once had for her. At some point the awful realization crept in that it would be a mistake to move away together, and every time I noticed it, it became harder to ignore it again. That Goddamn inner voice that lives only to smash my routines would pipe up:

“This isn’t working.”
“Shut up.”
“She’s not the one.”
“Shut UP! You don’t know that.”
“You’re being selfish because you're comfortable, and it’s not fair to her.”
“…b-but…where would she go?”

Smart girls don’t need to hear your inner routine-smasher to know when something is amiss in a relationship, and strong girls don’t need your pity or your cowardice. We both sensed that something had changed. We both knew our relationship was cracking under the immense pressure generated by two lives with absolutely no direction. Eventually she called me out for avoiding my future—our future, and burying myself in the routine. Eventually, in the heat of an argument, she asked me the question that I needed to have asked and that she needed to have answered.

“Do you even want to move together? What do you want?”

My insides were churning. My mind was racing. My sense of stability and love of all things safe and familiar were screaming at me to say something that would fix us and make it so that she’d never have to worry or feel bad about anything ever again for as long as she lived. My cowardly side begged me to find a cop out, to get mad, to skirt the question, to lie my ass off, or do anything that would prevent me from dealing with that horrifying question. My conscience wouldn’t let me do anything but answer honestly.

"I don’t know.”

She simultaneously hit the floor and the ceiling. Three words had gotten her to stay a year ago. A different three words told her that soon enough she’d be leaving and that it would be for her own good. I watched the weakest three words I could have uttered shatter her already fragile faith in me. She yelled, she cried, I yelled, I cried, and neither of us knew what to do. I tried to settle back down for a few weeks and tried even harder to convince myself that I was making a mistake and this was all repairable, but it couldn’t be done. She tried to settle back down and tried even harder to pretend that she still had a reason to be here if I couldn’t do any better than “I don’t know”, but it couldn’t be done.

As upset as I was that the words, “FYI wee need to talk” came fully three weeks before the outcome of that talk could be finalized, I understood. It was killing her to carry around the doubt and uncertainty. At some point, each of us needs to know that what we’re doing is eventually going to bear some metaphorical fruit. When it came time to talk, she told me what we both already knew; she was going to finish her class and move out. If I couldn’t be her good reason to be in Nebraska and school couldn’t either, that was it. She was out of reasons. I was shocked at how calmly I accepted the news. To be honest, I wanted her to tell me precisely what she had. I just wasn’t ready for the next step.

The next step is where I presently find not only myself, but her as well. We basically broke up two nights ago, but we’re still going to stay together in this little apartment for three weeks. I’ve never done this before. This isn’t how breakups go. We’re not supposed to see the part where the other wakes up in the morning and isn’t sure whether it would be better to spend the day openly crying or trying not to cry, or whether it would hurt more to see the other person or not see them. We’re both sick with cold and fever, and on top if it we’re heartsick. On top of that, we’ve got to watch the other person suffer. She asked me if it would be better for her to stay with somebody else for the final few weeks. I nearly threw up.

The only thing worse than already missing somebody who isn’t gone is already missing somebody who isn’t gone and not being able to see her. I know that there is no "good time" for things like this. I know I'll never be prepared to feel the loss. I’ll never be ready to wake up alone and stumble into my half-empty bathroom. I’ll never be ready to feel the suffocating sensation in my chest every time I find another one of her hairs, or see another car like hers on the street. I’ll never be ready to want to call her and not know if hearing her voice would help more or hurt more. While I still have a choice, I won’t do it. Hey, we already established that I’m a coward. More than any of the above reasons, I won’t let her go through this while she tries to politely camp out on some quasi-friend’s couch for three weeks. She may not be perfect for me, but she still deserves to be cared for and to receive the best I can offer until we part ways...and I’ll always love her, no matter what.