July 7-8, 1994. Half my life ago—22 years and 3 months to this day—I got into my 1985 bronze New Yorker and drove 874 miles from Newport News to Chicago with the singular goal of seeing a baseball game.

Architecture, pizza, Oprah—all things Chicago is famous for—meant nothing. I was going to soak in the sun on a weekday afternoon and keep score in the beautiful ballpark I knew only from TV. True, I was a lifelong Giants fan- but back then everyone’s default teams were Cubs and Braves. And everyone knows, you haven’t seen baseball until you’ve seen it played at Wrigley Field.

I wanted to know if was true that people could live in apartments and houses with views of the field. I wanted to know if the ivy really was that green, see firsthand the numbers posting up like magic from the hand-operated scoreboard.

And so armed only with an AAA map, I navigated my way through interstates 64, 70 and 90, until finally, I was on Lakeshore Drive—I’d made it.

The next day I arrived two hours early for the Cubs afternoon game against Houston. From my terrace reserve seats—that’s code for many, many rows behind home plate—I looked out to see a perfect diamond. All ballparks come with the crisp lines and immaculate grass— it’s the intimacy of a park like Wrigley that makes you feel like you can reach out and touch it. Words can’t do it justice. The Giants may have had my baseball heart but the Cubs had the field of my dreams.

I remember so little about the game itself. I remember the Cubs winning in the 11^th inning on a game-winning homer by Grace. Harry Carey was ill but the team played a recording of him singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” to satiate the lot of us who craned our necks upward during the 7^th inning stretch.

After the game, I got back in my car, onward to a new life in California. There were many more stops planned along the way—Kansas City, Denver, Phoenix – but none were more empowering than this one. I couldn’t have known that two years later, I’d be one of Chicago’s newest residents, living a mile away from Wrigley myself, seeing the field every morning and evening during my red line commute. So many more memorable afternoons at Wrigley lay ahead of me, but this journey was about so much more than baseball and ivy. It was the spark that set off an addiction to road trips and adventure that continues to this day.

It’s Oct. 7, 2016, and the Cubs are still playing at Wrigley. Later tonight, they’ll face my Giants and I’ll watch with mixed emotions as I remember my former neighbors and friends. The white-haired Corona drinker who celebrates retirement by selling his garage out during home games. My former porch on Wayne Street. The neighborhood tavern I once worked at after games. The drunks who can’t find the el.  Oh- and the 7-eleven. I think I miss you most of all.

Years ago, I went out with H. In three dates I learned the following:

I learned about the mother he worshiped and the father he detested. I learned about his siblings, where they went to college, where he went to college, where his best friend went to college. Did you know he once drove from Chicago to Seattle in two days and was devastated when Sleater-Kinney broke up? He told me he was considering moving to Winnetka but maybe not, Oak Park was a little cheaper. He was married once but it didn’t take. Delta was his favorite airline and The Sopranos was the best TV show he ever watched — that is, when he had time for TV. He loved his job but worried the other partners weren’t as dedicated as he. “Jennifer – he called me Jennifer – I’m used to working with stars.”

I learned all that in three dates. I’m not sure if I took my allergy pill this morning, but I remember this guy sitting next to me on the el, worrying about the lack of “stars” in his life. And me? If we ran into each other today, I’m pretty sure he could tell you this one thing about me: I like the San Francisco Giants.

Here’s the thing: This man could be the most charming man you ever met. He was smart. And funny. And cute. He was an impressive person and likely would’ve been even more impressive if he hadn’t been so darn impressed with himself. Even so, I couldn’t wait to ensure there would be no future dates.

I think about this man every time I encounter a bad listener. I know what makes a bad listener because I used to be one myself. One of my friends said she called it “The Jennifer Show” because I used to burst into rooms and embark on these long monologues about my crazy commute or customer service encounters. I thought they were hilarious. Sometimes they were. Other times they were just me boring people with stories I thought were unique which were actually quite universal.

I think about that previous version of myself and thank her for finally embracing the calm. The monopolizing version is still there but now she’s so much more self-aware. The more I mature, the more I wish others would nurture this side of themselves too.

These days it seems I am confronted by bad listeners everywhere: The cab driver who overshares. The coworker who never asks about my weekends but painstakingly details every minute of his own. The family member who drones on and on and never asks about your life.

If you listen yourself, you realize most of this stems from loneliness and while people don’t deserve a free pass for this particular version of bad etiquette, it does make it easier to swallow. I just wish my inner voice wasn’t constantly telling them to stop.

Note: This does not “weigh” on me per se but I never miss an opportunity to hear these songs!

I had plans to go hiking this weekend, somewhere new and unexplored. I pictured myself rising at 6 and driving off into the cool, morning air. The light humidity days should be cherished at this time of year and I wanted the cathartic release of a solo, sweaty hike.

But as I scratched out an itinerary for myself Friday night, I had second thoughts. The number one rule of hiking is never to go alone.  Going somewhere unfamiliar was probably even more unwise, I thought. What if, what if…

Stubborn to give up my “therapy,” I instead returned to a familiar hiking spot, one I knew that would be populated and within cell range. As I traipsed along the trails, I tried not to think about the fear that had almost kept me from doing one of my favorite things.

My favorite things are being challenged by this fear. These days when I go to the movies, I can’t bear to sit too far from an exit. I can’t go to the grocery store at night any more. I find myself avoiding eye contact on the sidewalk and on the train. This fear, this once irrational, now not-so-unjustified fear, is changing me and forcing me to be on alert, more than I ever thought I needed to be.

For years I hosted an informal TV club at my apartment in Chicago. We usually met Sundays and watched 1-2 episodes of a show we all decided to watch together. It started with Season 4 of The Wire, which centered on a failing city school system. At the time I was the only person I knew watching The Wire. I was obsessed with it and needed to share my obsession. I figured the education angle might be just the ticket to convince my teacher friends to join me.

And it worked! Not only did they come but a new tradition was born. Each Sunday I’d plan a meal –sometimes we cooked, sometimes we got delivery- and someone would bring wine and I got to do two of my favorite things: hosting friends and watching TV. Knowing people were coming over made me happy. Knowing I didn’t have to go anywhere made me even happier.

After we finished The Wire – I got them hooked, of course – we moved on to other shows: Homeland, The Americans, the John Adams mini-series, even The Voice made the rotation. Eventually, Sunday became Monday and Monday became Thursday but we always made time for what I now realize was a very special time in our lives. We couldn’t have known in early 2014 that by the year’s end 3 of our original 4 would leave Chicago. We couldn’t have known just how special it was for so many friends to all live within mere blocks of each other.

I was thinking about that tonight as I sat in my still-new (to me) apartment on my sectional couch with seating for 6. I finally have my ideal living room but my TV watching is now mostly a solo experience. I finally joined the streaming party but I miss the “responsibility” of the group watch. It’s hard to describe. When I watched with The Club, there were unwritten rules we all followed that I have trouble enforcing on myself when I’m alone. Things like not playing on phones or pausing during serious scenes. I find myself more engaged with Twitter than ever, looking for those folks watching what I’m watching, feeling what I’m feeling.

Musical inspiration? The Rolling Stones.

I find myself depressed that it’s not winter enough. I look out my windows and see brown, not white. I’m craving the white stuff and the comfort the flakes bring. I went for a walk yesterday and despaired at the need to remove my windbreaker. I want to put every layer on that I own and feel the cold on my bare face. I want the trails to myself again. I want to hear the silence that only a winter forest can bring. I want to walk the streets alone at night knowing there’s no chance of anything nefarious befalling me.

I want, I want, I want…what? Chicago? Unlike here, in Chicago I didn’t drive or shovel, leaving me free to bask in luxurious walks on city streets as much as I wanted. Remember the Polar Vortex of 2014? Did you see this? I see that and think of my old apartment on Hoyne and the hissing radiator and good times without a deadline. Because if there’s one thing winter has the power to do it’s the way it forces you to simplify.

As beautiful as fall is – as beautiful as the trees and streams are – winter is what stirs my imagination. I need some of that stirring right now. I need to snap out of this and I am counting on the cold to lift me. There is something so magical about a fresh blanket of snow. Snow in the lights. Snow in the dark. Snow on a cozy couch.

It spotlights a beauty that might never be noticed otherwise.

Musical inspiration provided by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson.

 

Years ago I interviewed for a newspaper job in a state that allows gambling. This newspaper, btw, put me up in a fancy hotel for three nights, published two stories I wrote on demand and DID NOT HIRE ME. I digress.

I was reminded of my time there recently as I mourned the impending doom of my phone, a weak-battery-Waze-killing-can’t-save-voicemails iPhone 4 that I curse everyday. Don’t laugh. This is an actual thing that stresses me out.

To my knowledge, I was the last one of my close peers to get a smartphone. There were no financial or political reasons for this. Perhaps I feared the upgrade in technology but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t overcome. No, my chief reason for not getting a smartphone until 2013 is the same reason I don’t have a fitbit or subscribe to Netflix: I didn’t want to become obsessed. Psychiatrists may diagnose otherwise, but I have it on pretty good authority that I suffer from a mild compulsive disorder (please, ask me about my eyebrows someday.) I knew the moment that I got a smartphone (or iPad) that I could play with all the time, something else would suffer.

Back to the job. I got over the slight of not being hired, but you know what really haunts me about that time? The $20 I gambled while I was there. I took $20 and turned it into $200 in an hour during an incredibly lucky Blackjack streak. What a rush—it scared the pants off me. I pictured myself living in this town with no friends and no money and the arrogance that I could turn $20 into $200 at any given time. No thanks!

There are so many aspects of my personality that make me seem fun but upon closer inspection can be traced back to this trait. One more round? Sure! But please know, that after 3, I see no difference between, 3, 4, 5 or 10. Guacamole? Why have one chip when you can have 100? Have you heard the soundtrack to Hamilton? Well, if you’re not interested, don’t hang around me. I am currently listening to it Non-stop. (Pun intended.) The list goes on. I used to think it made me fun, now it makes me want therapy. Why must everything be ALL OR NOTHING?

I’ve already lost so much of my attention span in the name of technology that a part of me just needs to hold out as long as I can on certain things. This isn’t false nobility. There are times when I am watching television where I can’t go five minutes without reaching for Google. I get this burning need to know RIGHT NOW what other projects I’ve seen this or that actor in. This isn’t just me sitting on my couch. I’ve hijacked entire conversations because of this compulsion. Was William Henry Harrison the 9th or 10th president? Why is Phoenix the capital of Arizona? I loathe myself when this awkward yet demanding curiosity rears itself.

So yes, I need to pace myself with the new technology. On the one hand, thank you lord for e-readers and their ability to blow up fonts for my tired eyes. But music? Oh how the way I enjoy music has changed. A song here, a download there. A reckless indifference to 80 percent of the CDs I still own. But then all the beloved podcasts that have enhanced my life so considerably. There are some days- gasp- I don’t even think about music. so yeah, it’s complicated.

Over the last few years, I’ve rededicated myself to the library. Got a record player. Started writing the occasional letter by hand. Movies in the theatre have always been a pleasure but now they’re an indulgent way to break up with my phone for a few hours. Even this writing space, which owes its existence to the internets, is an exercise in How I Used To Be. I carry a notebook, jot ideas down. It all helps but the urge to be online is always there.

And so I mourn that soon I will have to get a new phone and learn it and generally enjoy all sorts of wonderfulness. I’ll take lots of silly pictures and share them at the table because I’m just like everyone else. We’re all just like everyone else.

Musical inspiration? The Stones!

We met in October. After baseball, during Halloween, another new apartment. You cured an old heartbreak in an instant when you bared your soul. You listened to my stories with amusement. I listened to yours and wanted to rescue you.

It’s so incredibly wasteful to spend any of the present looking back, mourning something that no longer exists. Continuing, on even the best of days, to access places better left unvisited. Do only romantics do this? Do we have the copyright on sense memories? I wish I knew. Of one thing I am certain: the magic can never come back.

It’s October again and beautifully so. I smelled it fiercely yesterday walking along the Potomac. I live near the Potomac now, can you believe it? It’s prettier here but still so foreign. The roads are full of mysteries. I am a stranger to most everyone, a knowledge that courts so much freedom.

I’m a kid person. I feel like I need to get that out into the universe. That just because I don’t HAVE kids doesn’t mean I don’t like them. Or didn’t spend a significant chunk of my years desiring them.

Sometimes I feel like being childless by circumstance is its own form of infertility. The judgment I receive (perceive?) stems from countless angles, each one twisting the knife in a new way.

The lover who declared “I can’t sleep till 11 on the weekends like you.” Ouch.

The family member who blamed “I have 4 people to keep track of-you only have one” on rudely making me wait on a yes or no answer to something.

The coworker who flat out said, “I envy your life” upon hearing I had to go to Europe “yet again.”

I get it: There are lots of DINKs and SINKs out there swinging from the chandeliers every night. Traveling to foreign lands at a moment’s notice. Wasting money on frivolous meals and sporting events. Some of these people are full of such superiority on their decision “not to add to the population.” Gag. Some, I suspect, can’t handle the thought of the messiness that accompanies little people. Others, are like me. Women and men who just couldn’t bear to do it alone.

There are also many people with kids who don’t seem to enjoy it very much. Complaining constantly, working overtime to avoid their share of the load, playing with smartphones at soccer games. These folks don’t complain to other parents, btw. They seem to deliberately seek out ears they suspect would kill to have their problems. Sometimes this is correct. Other times…

When I crossed the 40 mark without kids, I knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my life mourning not being a mom. I’m an auntie and a friend and have much to be thankful for in the name of family. To spend precious hours torturing myself over this seemed like a one-way ticket to the Bitter Kingdom. Have you ever met these folks? No thanks!

Embracing painful truths isn’t easy. Your first step is acceptance. Once you get a grasp on that, reframing the situation gets easier. An example? The older I get the more I see there’s a sort of relief that comes from not worrying (as much!) about something happening to them.

I also made the decision to actively bond with the children of my dearest friends. Actively bond, meaning being regularly present in their lives. Not just showing up now and then with a present but helping with baths, changing diapers, and in the case of one unlucky tot, creating a lasting memory by accidentally zipping up his “pee pee.”

And one of the best things about leaving my beloved Chicago is being closer to my own niece and nephew. We’ve achieved that nirvana where it’s just a normal day hanging out. It doesn’t happen nearly enough. But it IS enough.

It has to be.

I love traveling. I love it so much I’ve even convinced myself I’m not bothered by the inconveniences it sometimes brings. Case in point? I actually like going to the airport. Something about surrendering control—because really, what choice do you have?—relaxes me and gives my mind permission to wonder to corners I don’t normally let it visit.

I spend so much of my public-facing life trying to stay focused and on point. To waste any of it dreaming* seems like a needless waste of precious energy. Because flying is something I usually do solo, I love the way I can just fold into myself and escape with my thoughts. The white noise seems to fuel my imagination, or if I’m feeling more contemplative, take me back to my life’s most memorable moments.

We can be anyone when we fly. I become quiet when I fly. In real life, I sometimes can’t shut up, but put me on a plane and I just can’t wait to zip it. I smile at the family in front of me–no, don’t worry, I like children; admire what it must take to fly with two under 2 to France, mon dieu! I try to make eye contact with the other rumpled middle-aged people sharing the tight quarters–I know, can you believe it, I can’t believe he reclined his seat! I find myself ordering the “healthy custom meals” and then cower in shame when they discover that no, it’s not an 80-year-old who ordered the low sodium special, just someone who wanted to guarantee she got grilled chicken!

There are so many ways to travel and see the world. When I get to my destination, if I am alone I like to explore by foot. Sometimes with headphones on, taking in the scenery like I’m part of a movie. The headphones are my armor, giving me space no matter the crowds. I can go hours like this. This is when I am my most romantic self.

Today’s musical inspiration? Come on, it’s The Monkees!

When I tick off the things in my life that have improved over the last 20 years, I run out of fingers. I’m smarter, more confident, richer in time and money…

But if there’s one area where I continue to beat myself up it’s body image.

With each year, my confidence in that matter diminishes more and more. What’s worse is that I don’t know a single woman who doesn’t struggle with this. And apparently, sadly, professional female athletes are no different. Two articles stand out on this subject. One mentions that newly-crowned World Cup-winning Ally Krieger hates her thighs (and sort of her feet and calves). In the other, Serena Williams explains how covering up her shoulders helps her go incognito away from the court.

In the matchup of Strength vs. Beauty, Beauty wins 9 times out of 10. For every woman who embraces her muscles and ability, another 100 will do anything it takes to look good—even if it means sacrificing winning, in the case of these tennis players. The NY Times piece concludes quoting Eugenie Bouchard, who acknowledges that being skinny has NOT helped her tennis career. Will her honestly impact future female athletes? Probably not.

I’m neither young nor particularly athletic. My goals for my body are simple: to stay healthy and mobile. I work out not to lose weight but to stay sane and yet…and yet…on any given day, I allow 20 percent of my brain to be preoccupied by feelings of body shame. Some days, it’s comparing myself to thinner friends. Other days are filled with a self-loathing that accompanies an utter lack of willpower when it comes to nachos.

The absolute worst part in all this is the knowledge that I am one of the well-adjusted ones! I’m mostly OK with not being thin. I don’t humblebrag about my diet or workouts, I would never shame a friend for ordering dessert; indeed, if I thought I’d wasted one moment of a friend’s time bemoaning my weight, I’d jump off the nearest bridge tomorrow. It’s enough (almost) that I am healthy.

So what’s to be done??

I think we all need to take a long look at ourselves and think about the things that truly matter. Stop thinking our lives would be better if only…When we gather with our girlfriends, aim to rise above the lazy impulses we all have to put ourselves down. Misery is NOT good company in this case. Take a cue from the narcissists (ahem, 80 percent of men) and brag about our achievements more and give ourselves a break for a change. We’re already terrific cheerleaders for others. Why not take a vow to cheerlead on our own behalf? Maybe make a game of it. The first person who mentions how fat she is, has to buy dessert. Ha!

I know it’s an impossible task. When I’ve tried to steer conversations of this sort in different directions, I’ve had little success. We’re conditioned to complain. We’re particularly conditioned to complain about our bodies. But it’s never going to get better if we don’t try to change the conversation and set better examples for the next generations. I know 5-year-olds who are already struggling with the “F” word. And that’s not OK.