I've been living in Chicago for a little over a week now and my feet consequently appear to have been fried in a deep fryer after running a few laps on a trail made of cheese graters. Someone of no zoological merit once told me that a horse stands for most of it's life, they may only lie down for a couple hours a day. I feel like a horse. I wake up and walk down a flight of 5 stairs, to walk half a mile to a bus which takes me to a different place to get out and walk. The rest of my day is usually spent walking or standing, and if I'm lucky I might be leaning against something. I would say, on any given work day, that I stand about 11 hours. The two days I have off a week are spent sitting on a couch with as much mobility as a drunk corpse. But my legs look fucking amazing so I guess there's that.
People here are good walkers. Even the old ones. Today I was walking in the Loop engulfing the city with my eyes when I heard a gumph from the man walking behind me. I looked back and met eyes with a man who was no younger than a hundred and two, who then peels out and practically blows my scarf off as he bulleted past me. I should also mention that the oldest man in the universe that passed me at warp-speed, he did so while texting on an i-Phone. In Kansas, by the time most people hit 60 they are to fat and and lazy to walk while they grocery shop, so they ride the grocers scooters around the store before dropping them off in front off at the register and walking out. In Kansas people don't walk fast, in fact I don't even think they walk, it's more of a combination of moseying and letting laws of inertia propel your body long enough to get inside your car. Here in Chicago that shit doesn't fly. Old people here could probably legitimately beat me up if I picked a fight with one.
I've been here a little over a week and am in complete culture shock. People are the same no matter where you go but depending on where you go people do things differently. For instance, people from Chicago undress quickly. I noticed this first through my intimacy with Kevin. He'll be shaking his underwear off his ankle around the same time my hair is raised by my shirt brushing up and over my head. I think it's because people here have so much shit with them at all times because most people don't have a car. Picture what a normal person would take in a car with them and then take the car away and replace them with two legs. I wear a shirt under a long sleeve shirt under a hoodie under a coat; my accessories include a scarf, a backpack filled with everything I can think of that I might possibly need.
Last week, I put three books in my bag in case I had trouble deciding what book I should read later that day. I hate reading, I read probably two books a year and ONLY if they keep my interest with graphically described sex scenes and a heavy hand of humor. So instead of reading I just lugged three books with me all day thinking, "when would I even have a chance to read, why in the fuck am I carrying these, does this backpack make me walk gayer?" It takes a long time to de-robe when you have that much shit on your person at all times. That's another thing I spend a lot of time doing, undressing and dressing. I spend about 10 minutes a day getting ready for the cold and about 10 minutes figuring out if I need gloves or not, and about 15 minutes taking off my clothes to adjust to climate controlled heating. That is over one half of an hour every day I'm putting on or taking off clothes. Which is why people like Kevin can go from winter wonderland apparel to naked and sexy in a blink of an eye. I'm getting faster though, so I guess there's that.
I'm living with 6 other people in this art collective space called NoSandbox. It's next door to Harpo studios so I've been telling people in Kansas that I live by Oprah. We didn't have art collectives in Kansas and if we did who fucking cares because Chicago has way more of them. Things are uncertain at the collective, the lease ends in 5 months and one of the leaseholders is leaving in a month. We all share a common sleeping area with sheets and boards holding up the sheets as room dividers, but I don't mind because I can see the Sears Tower from my sheet-room's window. Everything is disgusting, the floors look like a vollyball court, the bathrooms have so much bacteria visibly growing in them that I'm almost wondering if they should be seriously quarantined and bulldozed, but I don't mind so much. I'm usually to busy looking at how high the ceilings are to notice things like, what might be poop smeared on the hallway floor.
I miss my Jen, I miss my family and I miss my old apartment but I've been to busy to be depressed about those things. I'm not in a position in my life where I can acknowledge negativity in the way I have previously and seemingly sought it out in the past. It's easy to slip and let life pass you but I got my fucking elbow pads on I wont be down long. So I guess there's that.
I've also been dealing with a pesky emotion for about three months now that sort of makes me want to puke. I was first punched in the face by this emotion's coiled fist a month ago when I was visiting Kevin and meeting my new roomates before I moved in. Kevin and I were invited to a party at NoSandbox which was foretold to have a burlesque show, areal acrobatics, ice cream and local beer. We sat at the bus stop which would take us to the party and to my future home and I couldn't stop tearing up with anxiety. My life was about to change, I was afraid my roommates would hate me, and I was fighting off kevins glances and affections. I think doctors would call my tears a result of a massive panic attack. Kevin took me in his arms and sang to me a song never sung, "who is this man in my arms? Who is this beautiful man in my arms? It's Ryan, it's Ryan, it's Ryan. As he started getting louder I ran away from him and the bus stop while he chased me singing, "It's Ryan, it's Ryan." I looked behind me thinking he was further away but he was right there, right in front of me. He kissed me, and that's when I got punched in the face.
Two night ago I roasted a chicken with Kevin. There was one point when I was putting diced onions that he had just cut, on the breasts of the chicken. Our eyes met and our smiles matched. I got punched in the face then too.
I'm falling in love. So I guess there's that.
