Vintage

I saw the cutest guy on the bus last night.

Before you start thinking this is THAT kind of "I met a guy on the bus and we're having coffee after work" story, it isn't. He was probably on the downhill slide from 80. Years old.

He had that perfect Grandpa look—kind, gentle eyes hidden slightly behind big bifocals; a sweet face; skinny and freckly but not icky arms and hands; and a slightly hunched posture that made me want to protect him.

Wearing the exact type of shirt my Gramps used to wear (the short sleeved cotton shirt with the double breasted pockets and the stiff collar) in lemon yellow, he boasted a little notepad and a pen in his front breast pocket.

For whatever reason, I had a momentarily-difficult-to-contain urge to hug him. He seemed so peaceful and quiet, almost timid and scared, but something tells me that it would take a lot of strength to live in Chicago as an elderly person.

It is exhausting here.

I mean that as a compliment, sortof, but it is. The drain of the commuting, the noise of the city, the hustle of the crowds, the throng of tourists, the roar of the sirens...it is just tiring.

While I can see that the bus/train/cab lifestyle is easier than driving when you can't hear, reach the pedals or see the signs anymore, but seriously. Many people don't even budge to give them priority seats. At least in your own car you have that much guaranteed!

Therefore, I must give major props to those vintage folks who make it around this city solo. I promise not to hug any strangers...don't worry.