Normal in the City

I'm the type of person who never feels like she is doing enough. I feel positive about my first year in Chicago, but I still have a voice nudging me, "You're behind. Giddy-up." And then Stripes visits and asks what I have been writing, and I say, "Pfft. Not enough." But she presses what I did from August 2014 to August 2015, and I wrote two screenplays, three ten-minutes, a musical, and two-full-length plays. Plus a sketch show at SC. Yeah, when I list it, it sounds like a lot, but since only two of those things have been produced so far, it feels like close to nothing.

Yesterday I had a "regular" day. I was taking the bus home thinking I wish I had accomplished more, that I should really carve out some time on this holiday weekend to work, and I cycled back through my day.

6:30 - rise, drink water, brush teeth, wash face, stretch
7:00 - read the news, some spirituality articles, answer a couple emails
8:00 - set off for aerobic step and muscle sculpt class
10:00 - make yogurt parfaits and watch an episode of Portlandia
10:30 - grade English 101 papers
1:00 - have pb&j lunch
1:20 - off to school, listen to an improv podcast on commute
2:00 - teach English 101 (grammar quiz, essay feedback, facilitating discussions)
3:30 - meet with two students struggling for different reasons during office hours
4:15 - scarf some egg salad while watching clips of Mindy Kaling on talk shows
4:30 - scoot out to meet up with TQ for a skillet cookie
6:00 - a Q & A with Aidy Bryant at SC
7:00 - grab a cab to attend my coworker's interactive theatre piece about mushroom caps
9:15 - take a bus home, thinking about my day
10:00 - recap the day with Bisque, send some night emails
10:45 pass out, have a stress dream about auditions

This is a GOOD day, no matter how normal it feels to me. I have to remember that while I am rolling my eyes at someone yelling about mushrooms stroganoff in a a small theatre space, or while I'm clutching my coat tight around me as I walk into work muttering, "why do I live here," or while I nearly gag on my dinner because more students needed time to debrief than expected, I am living a v. cool existence. It would be the highlight of some people's week to do even one of these things! This is why I live in a snowglobe and slush through muck and feel the stress of possibility.

Moving Meeting

That's strange. My 3:40 conference student never showed up. He's a good egg. A quiet egg, but a good one who is in community college to get cheap gen-eds before med school. Smart egg. But he's still a little guy. Eighteen I think. I packed up and headed home. Right as I'm about to hop the train, he jumps off! "You missed your meeting!" I said sort of joyfully because he was! (Out of all the trains I could have taken.)

He explained he had forgotten his ID, so he had to go home to get it! I asked if he wanted to meet right there in the underground with the do-wop men chiming near. He asked, "Are you going somewhere?" I told him just home, and he pointed to the closing doors. "I can just get on the train," he said.

I stuck my hand out and we jumped in. We stood holding different rails, swaying, and I asked him to tell me what revisions he is thinking of. He did over the short woman with a blue kerchief. I hassled my notebook out of my tote. "You have a low B for participation since you never speak up in class," but you have an A in the course on the whole. A thin-haired man watched on. "Well that's it then." I said after two stops, "Are you staying on?" No. He got off to catch the train in the opposite direction.

Day in the Life, October 9

Turning the keys before 7 AM. The apartment is quiet, Bisque still sleeping. Wake up, wake up. Walk to the train in breaking light, One-D my soundtrack. Wake up, wake up. No seat on the el, so I stand with feet far apart and strong squatted thighs holding Ghosts by Chuck P. The train gets fuller and fuller, downtown emptier and emptier. It's just me and three other ladies by the time I'm at the end of the line.

First meeting at my new teaching residency. Google the neighborhood. Police officer shot and killed 17 hours before I arrive. I have a new hot pink Mace, and I tuck it into my seafoam scarf. Packed bus, everyone sighs when the wheelchaired person has to get off. Bless wheelchaired folk on buses. Bless them.

My new boss is a happy man who keeps his wrist limp. He brings six donuts to this kickoff meeting. Me and this happy sweetie and this fresh-faced creative writing ginger. The box is opened. "I got three of my favorite kind to make sure even if you both wanted that kind I would get one." I like this style. I have the favorite old fashioned. It is thick with hardened sour glaze. We walk to the train and men yell at me. We ignore them, but it isn't easy. "What is that smell?" my boss politely asks. "Oh, weed." I say. "Ah," he adds.

And then we're back to the rest of the world with skyscrapers. I stop in the Claire's and debate buying corn dog earrings. I don't because I don't have money for corn dog earrings. This shouldn't even be a consideration. People who don't have money for corn dog earrings should not even hold corn dog earrings to their faces. In my office adjuncts come and go. Sometimes the conversation is like grad school and real and potentially useful and sometimes its like, "Ohmygod how many times do people have to discuss music videos being terrible to women?" I guess they still are, so.

The students got into partners, and the students from the country south and the student from the country east were paired. They made up analogies. Some work too hard on these classroom exercises, and that is good. Grading papers, grading papers, grading papers. Scheduling classes, making plans, Next semester, money, lesson plans.

I collapse at home. "I'm sorry," I tell my man. "I need two minutes. What I ate today: a donut." I fall asleep sideways on the couch, and he wakes me up with a tiny pot of beans. I feel gooped. Brain whack. Like a confused baby being fed. Go to the theatre, have an audition for some little show. It's exercise like anything else. Audition, audition, write, write, write. I'm home grading papers again, always, forever and ever, in my grave, underground, so many student emails, "Can you tell me everything I missed today?"

Extra Mile

Tonight we finished the Costco tub of peanut butter filled pretzels. I already miss them. It was a quiet night of grading. At about nine Bisque started lacing his sneaks for a run and asked if I wanted to join. It is particularly perfect fall evening, so I did. I mentioned as we passed the harbor how nice it is that I can run three miles just because. That's not something I could always do. In fact, until about five years ago, running three miles would be a pretty sizable challenge for me. It is really hard to understand how that was ever possible because it's just a half hour activity! Why did I ever think jogging for half an hour is something to fear? There are 48 half hours in a day. I do so many things for half an hour. Why didn't I see running could easily be one of them?

I am obviously a big proponent of exercise. I think it improves basically every aspect of one's life. Duh: physical health, mental health, time to relax, whate'r. But since moving to the city I have been very conscious of how my exercise regimen allows me to go the extra mile in a literal sense. When the bus is coming, I can run to catch it. When it's time to pick a dinner place, I don't feel like I have to stay on on block. I'll walk and walk and walk to get what I want. It wouldn't occur to me to stay in because I am tired of climbing stairs--even though by going out I am guaranteeing I'll have to do the three flights yet again. I'm down.

Little Brown Line

Last night after my second class of The Program I stuck around for the free improv set on the mainstage. It was a beaut--the performers on full throttle. It's really strange being in this world of comedy and rising up through it. I never see things for fun anymore. It's professional development, and while it's still a good time (and sometimes even more a good time because I am more active than the average bear), after comedy shows I can feel like I just ran sprints even though I was on my butt and silent for an hour.

Side: It just occurred to me that I should really get into watching sports more. I love film and all, but sometimes I feel so exhausted analyzing something for two hours. I can't turn off the creator in me. I'm either playing "How would I improve this?" or "How can I improve my work to be this?" But when I watch basketball I'm just like, "Yay, dribble, pretzels etc." I do have pretty fond memories of watching an ex-boyfriend's college swim meets because it was like, a super lazy but falsely productive Saturday afternoon.

Anyway, I was so dead tired come show close. And I was doing that game where you feel tired so you just want to be in bed so you increase your pace to get there quicker, but then you realize it's going to be at least a 40 minute commute and you slow down again, but then oh man! 40 minutes! Put some spring in that step, girly, you wanna get home at 1 AM?! I walked through town alone listening to Tori Amos for some reason. As I got the the brown line I thought I heard the train rumbling through. Yeah, I did. But two flights of stairs. Not gonna happen. But, similar to my walking mind game I ran up the first half-flight, then was like, "Okay, I'm gonna miss it." But then was like, "Well, with that attitude!" And then I ran for like two more seconds and then I was like, "Seriously not for all the tea in China can I muster the lightening speed to make this train."But then I was like, "Maybe someone will fall down on the tracks, you never know, I better just hoof up there." So I did, and right as I crowned the top of the steps, the train doors closed.

Sigh, I can wait ten minutes. But then I heard a "Hey." It was the conductor. He was leaning out of his window. And then the doors reopened! I scuttled in with a "Thanks!" It was such a small thing, but I felt so cared for and so important. It really made my night, which is weird because it was a very good night to begin with.