The Answer... is Blowing in the Whim

If you know me, I mean really know me, you know that I've never been THAT person. You know, the stable, put-together person who had her life mapped out by the time she was in high school. The girl who always knew exactly where her passions lay and what she wanted to do with her life. The girl who never dared stray from her neatly carved-out path or indulge even the greatest temptation to break free of her comfort zone.

In fact, I'm quite the polar opposite.

I'm the girl who, for some crazy reason, allows herself to be led freely by her passion of the moment; a girl who has always been afraid of limiting herself by making a choice and settling down. My interests vary widely and fluctuate on an almost daily basis. I'd like to believe that these are just the characteristics of the free-spirited artist that I am. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) for me, I'm also one of those hapless souls who earnestly believe that your interests should coincide with your professional career choice.

Ahh...silly, romantic optimist that I am.

I have realized that it would be folly not to embrace this very rare, albeit fleeting, moment in my life when I have the freedom to indulge my whims, no matter how foolish or varied they are. No children to distract me, no law firm to answer to...really, what excuse is there?

So, on that note...

This Tuesday, I started writing my first ever "real" short story. The idea for it came into my head as I lay in bed at night (for some reason, almost all my story ideas come to me as my head hits the pillow). I will share more details of my progress as the story comes along. Right now, I am only at 500 words; the hatching stage. The plot is still thickening in my head, the characters still developing...

I don't want to reveal too much, but I was inspired partly by all the recent mass shootings in this country. Most, if not all of these massacres, have been by male perpetrators. What drives a man, I wondered, to step outside of all known, acceptable boundaries to commit such a heinous act? The only word that kept coming into my head was "damaged." These men are damaged beyond all hope, all healing. What, in their unique histories, created these irreparably damaged souls?

I think the ability for men to be wounded so deeply is rarely discussed. It's acceptable for a women to admit fear, utter despair and loneliness, but what about the men who have lost all hope? The men who live in a squalor of self-hate and stark loneliness? The media tends to concentrate on the violent nature of the acts themselves, sensationalizing their "violent, crazed" nature." I think it's important to explore the humanity behind the monster (don't interpret my sentiments as approval. I definitely find these acts abominable, but I think it's also important to discover why they happen).

On a totally different note...

Today, I emailed an event planning business in town to ask about any possible freelance positions. As I sit here in front of my computer for countless hours in a day, I realize that no matter how much I LOVE to write, I can't be shackled to a desk all day long. It is actually driving me a bit crazy.

But, why event planning?

Unlike the majority of sane people who see the planning portion as a necessary evil to get to the final destination (think wedding, dream vacation, etc), I have always relished the many intricate steps leading up to the final event, as much as the final event itself. I'm the most creative and the most productive in the intense moments of mapping out the details that culminate in a final product/event.

Crazy person that I am, I embraced the opportunity to plan every detail of my own wedding and even found myself a little disappointed when all the stress and sleepless nights were over. Instead of looking at the planning for our month long trip to S. America as a monstrous chore to tackle, I enjoyed every detail-oriented moment of it. I am proud to say that I planned every detail of our lengthy trip (which included nine flights within 26 days) without the aid of any travel agent or tour company.

I'm proud of myself for putting myself out there and emailing this company, but I'm highly doubtful I'll be receiving a reply from them anytime soon. I'm sure that event-planning businesses aren't exactly thriving in this crazy market.

So, anyhoo, I'm letting my whims blow me whichever direction they desire...for now. I'm taking the advice of my very awesome, wise friend who recently told me, "look at this time with joy as a place of discovery."

Of course...how could I have ever thought there was any other option?

Love Me, Worry Warts and All

I am an easily spooked sleeper. For some reason, when night falls, my worry-wart filter becomes a lot more porous. Morbid thoughts and worst-case scenarios that seem ridiculous during the day, seem more than a likely possibility under the cloak of darkness.

Last night, I laid wide-awake, listening to our large bedroom windows shaking and rattling in submission to what felt like a violent windstorm. My husband, being blessed with the ability to sleep through a train wreck, slept soundly next to me.

Although it may not seem like the most logical worry, I could not help but wonder how much longer our windows would hold up. The wind seemed angrily determined to penetrate and obliterate the only barrier between the warmth of our indoor shelter and the harsh elements outside. Images of shattered glass and wood spraying over our slumbering bodies danced like little malicious trolls in my head. How could we ever clean up the littler shards of glass? What would we use to close the gaping holes where our windows used to be?

Then, around midnight, I heard it: the loud sounds of somebody walking to and fro in the unit above us. This would be nothing more than an ordinary nuisance...if it wasn't for the fact that the unit above is vacant. I can assure you that I did not imagine any of this. The sound of footsteps was clearly audible and continued on for a good thirty minutes. Whoever was upstairs was walking very methodically back and forth (i could hear the creaking of a few floorboards).

If I was 7 years old, I would have attributed these footsteps to a schizophrenic zombie sleepwalker. However, as a rational thirty-two year old women, I knew that there were only three explanations: 1) the builders of our unit were doing work in the above unit (at midnight??); 2) an intruder had entered our 3-flat building and was squatting in the empty unit; or 3) an intruder had entered our building with malicious intent.

With my worry-wart gear in full throttle now, the third option seemed the most likely. My eyes opened wide at this realization and I cowered underneath our comforter. What could the intruder be doing up there? Whoever it is, why would he need to continually walk back and forth throughout the unit? And then, the horror of the intruder's plans dawned on me: arson!

Of course, why else would he need to walk around so methodically? He was pouring gasoline throughout the whole unit! But what would be the motive? Wait, who cares about motive, we were about to be burnt to a crisp!

I immediately thought about our smoke alarm and how I had never gotten around to doing the recommended "yearly test." Why hadn't I prioritized that on my to-do list? What about the fire safe that I had so responsibly bought a few months ago? Would I have time to put all our important documents into the safe before the arson-goblin trapped us in our soon to be blazing home?

My mind raced through various escape plans...could we escape through our bedroom back patio? Would he be waiting there for us? Would he have built some elaborate contraption that triggered a bucket of gasoline to fall on us as soon as we opened our sliding glass doors and jumped out onto the patio? Or, would he...

And then...I fell asleep.

Like so many prior mornings after a night of hyper-imaginative story-boarding, I awoke amazed to find the bed intact, our room not ablaze, and both myself and my husband in one piece.

After adjusting to the rationality of daylight, I told my husband about the footsteps and my theory. He seemed a bit annoyed by yet another one of my wildly speculative and drawn-out hypos that he (understandably so) interprets as a real worry.

And is it? I don't know...under the cloak of darkness, most definitely. And in general, I would venture to guess that my worries tend to be a bit more "outside the box" and morbid than those of the average person.

But, i also believe that all this juiced-up drama I frequently conjure up in my head is just a form of creative exercise for my brain, and shouldn't be interpreted literally. Some of my more imagination-oriented brain lobes, dusty and underutilized by years in the legal profession, are simply eager to make up for lost time. Yes, I worry. Yes, my head conjures up some crazy scenarios sometimes. But that doesn't mean that those worries are at the forefront of my consciousness.

I know my husband loves me, worry warts and all, but I can tell it bothers him that I worry about things I can't control. I love him for his concern, but I don't think he gets that I like this crazy, technicolor part of me. It makes me who I am, and I could never be any other way.

My nights may be a bit crazy, but at least they are rarely ever boring.

Oh, and wait until you hear about my dreams.

Warm and Fuzzy

I'm sitting here on our living room couch with my beloved husband. We both have cups of chai tea and laptops on our laps. Up until a few minutes ago, the snow was swirling devilishly outside our huge windows. I can't help but feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

After all this gloom and doom dread, I'm realizing that snow in early-April really isn't that bad. I just suddenly feel ridiculously grateful. Life is good. Sure it sucks that Chicago's winter seems to never end, but without this long period of dreary cold (Erin, your recent blog post inspired me) how would I truly appreciate the beauty of the summer? This 6 month plunge into the ice age will only make the warmth of June so much sweeter.

I have always embraced the notion that the key to being happy is to embrace an attitude of gratefulness. Everything else falls into place after that. Of course, adopting that eternally positive attitude at all times is a challenge, but it really is life's elixir.

This weekend was wonderful. Friday night I cooked kimchi jigae, at the request of my husband, after finding a recipe on the web. I strayed from the recipe by adding ground turkey instead of slices of pork (totally non-Kosher. Koreans, unless you're in my family, love their pork!). We had a nice night in. It's funny. We always seem to have these ambitious plans to go out to dinner/a club/other fun activity on Friday nights but they never seem to materialize. We just seem to be too tired on Fridays to leave the comfy confines of our home. Maybe when the weather gets better, we'll overcome our tiredness to venture out more on Fridays.

On Saturday, I enjoyed a rare girl-centric day. I went with a girlfriend to get manicures and drink wine flights afterward. We chatted up a storm and I had so much fun. I really miss having my girlfriends around. I have made very little effort to meet new girlfriends in this town and I'm feeling the effects of withdrawal from not having meaningful interactions with other women. I will have to get my butt out of this house and make more of an effort.

Today, Sunday, my husband and I grabbed brunch at one of my favorite breakfast spots in our hood, Hot Chocolate. It was such a memorable experience, that I had to write about it as soon as I got home. If you feel like checking it out, here is my Yelp review.

http://www.yelp.com/biz/hot-chocolate-chicago#hrid:govqyMsh8zK8cndKzou6JA/src:self

I swear, the food was so good I was kind of in a trance/zone...I'm not too impressed by food at restaurants that often anymore, so this was really good.

After we ate, we walked around the neighborhood window shopping and ducking into a few random stores here and there. Eerily, the streets felt a bit like a ghost town...there were very few people out and about. The few stores that we did enter, we were usually the only people in the stores. At first, my mind immediately chalked it up to the blasted economy. However, one of the sales clerks attributed the slow foot traffic to the reports of imminent sleet and snow. Apparently Chicagoans' hopes of a warm April Sunday had been dashed and they were too bitter to leave their homes. I believe the words she used were "hunkering down." I thought only people in the South said that?

The sales clerks seemed abnormally talkative (as if we were the only human interaction they had had in a while. I guess you can only gaze admiringly at your own inventory or surf the internet for so many hours)but they were all really nice and friendly. One lady, when she found out I was an attorney, even went out of the way to give me the contact info of her legal-recruiter friend. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I would rather stick a hot poker in my eye than go back to the law (yet, very schizophrenic and telling that I still identify myself as an attorney ). This species of friendliness oozes out of the Chicagoans we meet. Or maybe we are just supremely likeable. ;)

When we left the last store, we saw how ominous the sky looked and realized that we would have to outrun the oncoming storm since we were sans umbrella. We walked a bit faster, but, in all honesty, I didn't mind the bitter cold or the sleet that eventually pelted our vulnerable, hatless heads. It was fun and it was our little Wicker Park adventure as we ran hand-in-hand back home (ok, the hand-in-hand part didn't actually happen the whole way home, but it sounded good. C'mon, this is Chicago. It's rare that we remove our hands out of the warm depths of our pockets).

When we got home, we cranked up the heat and bundled up under our chenille throw. Only a few hours later did the beautiful snowflakes begin to flurry wildly outside our window. We didn't mind. We were inside, warm, and blessed to have the option to go inside to escape the cold. I'm trying to see the beauty of this early April snowstorm weather, and I'm getting there.

None of this means that I have stopped my intense longing for the day when I can venture outside without strategizing my layers. I'm just realizing that life is so much more than the weather and learning to appreciate whatever is thrown our way.

Let's hope that this coming week will be filled with productivity.

And gratitude.