In the air

My weekend has been a lot of trying to make myself feel something -- from impromptu drunken dress-up with a best friend, to runs in the rain, and yoga on the lakefront.  It's my favorite time of year and I seem to test myself.  "If this is my last fall here, will I miss this or that or this?" I think as I ride my bike through my neighborhood, get Thai take-out at my favorite bargain joint, read a magazine on a blanket in the grassy part of the beach.

I start to lose track of time -- how many years have I been here, how many months since my last oil change, how long since I last talked to my ex-boyfriend?  I stop and count, lose track again, call a friend and ask if he can remember.

I ride my bike past an old apartment, stop, look in the window, wonder if my old neighbors still live there.  I see my favorite cashier at the grocery store.  She used to work at this high-end grocer downtown in the same building where I was a floral designer for a couple of years.  She'd ring up my rottisserie chicken and tell me she liked me hair braided.  Once, when she rang up my old boyfriend and me in our neighborhood store, she told us we looked like Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez and I wondered what drug she was on.  About a year after we broke up, she asked me why the "good-looking man" was never with me anymore.

"We broke up," I said simply.
"Oh," she replied, disappointed, "You looked famous together."

I can't remember anymore how long it's been since we broke up.  I stop in front of our old apartment on my bike ride and peer past our old window and track time. Two years, three years, four?

In my favorite neighborhood bar I have a beer and ask the bartender where he went when he was gone for so many months.
"New York," he said.
"I guess you didn't like it?" I asked.
"No," he said, "I really didn't.  So I came back."
"I hated this bar when you were gone," I told him, and that's the truth.  I hated that bar with its pretentious staff and stuck-up owner and shimmery, glistening wood-everything that I used to love once upon a time, but now I hate.
In the corner of the bar, on the side I always sit, is my friends' initials carved into the wood that I used to love. He points them out everytime we sit there and everytime I nod, but this time when he points them out, he says, "That was obnoxious of me," and I nod and say, "It was," and we go on drinking our beers through our smiles in that way you do with someone you've known for a dozen years.
"I hated this bar," I say again to the bartender after he serves another customer.
"Why did you hate it?" he asks.
"I guess because you weren't here."

I look for comfort in the familiararity.  I look for comfort in change.  I look for something to make me feel.
But comfort, in its comfort, in its safe, warm, comforting comfort, begins to disarm me.

"How many years have I lived here?" my friend asks me between swigs.
"Two years longer than I have." I say.
"How long is that?" he asks.
We drink more beer.

"Remember the fun days?" he asks, and I do.
We reminicse about the early Chicago days and the Missouri days before that.  We reminisce about the summer we became friends and spent entire nights wandering around our college town, watching the sunrise from parking garages in highrises, and from the branches of the trees in his backyard.  After work -- after his show and my hours at the library, we'd meet up at his place and sit in his back porch for hours and ponder everything and nothing and we'd meet up with our old hippie guru friend late in the night and he'd regale us with tales of the 60's, and life, life seemed endless then.  I was 19.

"I think 6 or 7 years," I say to him.
"So that's, like, 9 for me?"
"I guess," I say.
We drink more beer.

I test myself.  "Will I miss this?" I think, as I have dinner with friends, make plans for next weekend, exchange coping strategies for the upcoming winter.
"We have to have a supper club!" I say when we're all together, "And movie night!  And board games."  And as I say it, I wonder if I believe it -- if I can ressurect enthusiasm for one more season, one more weekend, one more anything.

On Sunday evening, I read the Chicago Reader and see what sorts of things I missed while I was moping this weekend.  Even the things that seem remotely interesting, in the context of all this comfort and familiararity, seem boring now.

I text NYMan: "I miss you," I write.
I flip through a magazine.
I sip some red wine.

This is my favorite time of year, I tell myself.
Like the wood in the bar that I once used to love, and the endless crowds it draws now, and the growing beer list and high-priced food menu, I imagine I've just outgrown it.

"I thought I'd try something new," the bartender tells me when I ask why he went to New York, "Try a change, you know?"
"Yeah," I say as I mindlessly finger my friend's initials in the wood, "I do."

Comments

[Browneyedgirlie]

Beautiful post.

Reminds me of how little time I have for writing like this. And how I miss it immensely.

I'm struggling with the change of scenery debate myself. I say go with it. Embrace it.

Like the bartender, if you don't like it, you can always come back.

[Erin]

Jesus Christ, this is good.

[Schnozz]

Ooooh. Well done.

The best thing to be learned from that bartender, in my opinion, is that you can always come back. There's no shame in it, either; in fact, when coming back is in fact the right choice, it's astonishing how much better the place is than when you left, though of course it hasn't really changed at all.

Whenever I feel like maybe I live in the wrong place or am doing the wrong thing, like maybe everything's gone all haywire since I sold my house and moved to another state, I remind myself that I could always just go back. And, of course, I never really want to. The knowledge that I could, and the knowledge that I don't want to, offer a great deal of comfort, especially in combination. I think it'll be easier for me to leave next time, but maybe that's just naive.

At any rate, I vote for adventure. In case you were wondering. :)

[mike]

god, you're such an amazing writer. keep on doing this

[X-GF]

am i sensing a move for you in the near future? say NY maybe?

[Jeramy]

If humans were meant to stay in one place for very long, we would never have gotten out of Africa. Of course you'll miss things, but think of all the new things that'll make up for it.

[Scarlett]

Wow, this was gorgeous. You really touch the reader with this one.

I too sense a move in the future.

[Karen]

This is the very first time I have been to your site and the very first post I read... perfect! You are a very talented writer and I can't wait to read your previous entries.

If you are planning a move, I say congratulations! I just moved to Japan after my husband and I were looking for a change. I think we went a little overboard but it definitely did the trick. I still miss DC though.

[gigi]

I've been reading your site for months now and this post is by far the best one that you've written! The lonely, somewhat haunted tone of it reminded me of my favorite author, Haruki Murakami. Especially his book Sputnik Sweetheart. Ahhh, how I aspire to capture the same tone in my own writing.

I'm sorry that you're sad (or maybe unaffected is a better word?) but at least your writing is enjoying the benefits!

[Laura]

Go for it Wendy! (Everyone else pretty much said all I wanted to say)

[ChicagoJen]

Agreed: Just great.

And I think many of know exactly how you feel.

[Cat]

I feel like I can totally relate with what you're going through. Not really depressed. More like apathetic. Nothing seems that interesting or fun anymore.

I'm a big believer in a change of scenery to shake things up. I'm planning my own get away for next year. If you've got the mobility and the means, I think you should go for it. As someone else mentioned, you can always go back, and it's always worth a try to go forward.

[teahouseblossom]

Very nice post!

And next time you come to NYC, you must let me know!

[citywendy]

Browneyedgirl, right-- I can always come back!

Erin, thanks, Erin!

Schnozz, I've been telling myself the same thing andc I believe it. Right now it's juist a matter of setting up the logistical things -- finding a good job, apartment, etc.

Mike, thank you.

Ex-gf, yes, something like that, sometime soon.

Jeramy, true.

Scarlett, thanks!

Karen, not all my posts are like this one -- most are about how shitty my hair looks and how everyone's out to get me.

Gigi, I don't know that author, but now I have to go look him up, of course. Thank you.

Laura and ChicagoJen, okay!

Cat, I have everything but the means, so that's what I'll be working on for the next however long it takes.

THB, I'll be there in just a few weeks!

[Cover Your Mouth]

This is such a terrific post. Fall always inspires feelings of longing.

[e.]

Great writing. I hope you don't mind, but I linked to this post. It really captures how I've been feeling, although for rather different reasons.

Congrats on the decision to move!

[citywendy]

Thanks, cym.

And thanks for the link, e. -- I'm glad you liked the post.

[Neil]

Every one fears change, but it is the best way to grow and learn.

[Claire]

Hi, I love this post. I followed e's link.

Thanks.

[c-monkey]

Happened across your blog by chance... I like your writing style. I'll be back.

[Melinda]

Had to add myself to the list of people who think this was a beautifully written post.

As one who has recently made a 'big move' (from canada to the UK) I can tell you that it is both scary and thrilling at the same time. Your writing sounds alot like how I was feeling and it seems like NYC might be a great place for you to have your next adventure and feel that zest for life again.

looking forward to reading about what happens next...

[Sex & Moxie]

This was beautiful. It made me think back to my days living in Boston. I've been in NYC for 14 years and it feels like I just came here. Move if you feel it's what you want. If it will make you happy.