The Fear that You Won't Fall*

It just occurred to me. And I can't stop thinking about it.

Now it's repeating in my head over and over, unchanging.

I suspect this is totally inappropriate to share, but I feel compelled to. Not that I want you to tell me I'm wrong, or crazy, or deserve more. Just that I needed someone to hear this. Although, frankly (and not to offend you, dear readers), I don't even need anyone to actually read and respond to this. I just needed to write this. To put words to it. To actualize my feelings. To make it real. Only, with hope, to make it not happen again.

The problem is this. I'm terrified.

I'm so scared that it will keep happening. It has already happened more than I'd like to admit.

I will meet someone who thinks I'm beautiful, smart, interesting, kind and funny. And he will tell me that a lot. He will compliment me. He will be charming, sweet, romantic and loving.

And he will ask me if "I'm for real?" and "how am I possibly single?" and "why hasn't some guy snatched me up?" And I will feel flattered that he asked. And wonder the same things, maybe, with a hint of a self-satisfied smile.

I'm scared that I will have a hard time trusting anyone again. I'm afraid I won't trust myself. I'm nervous I will not trust my own judgment, of my feelings, my gut, my instincts, my heart.

I'm scared that I will care, and that it will all happen again. Like it has so many times.

The guy likes me so much at first. Loves, even. Cares about what he sees, what he knows, and what he doesn't see and know. Genuinely wants to get to see and know those sides. Those innermost parts.

And, then, as soon as he does, he changes his mind. He pulls back. He moves away. He lets go.

Then, it is over. And I'm alone again. Questioning, doubting, curious.

Wondering if I'm for real, and how am I possibly single, and why hasn't some guy snatched me up.

I'm not smiling this time.

*Borrowed from the title of Joshua Radin's sad and beautiful song.

Fruit Across the USA

After a Saturday marathon that included episodes of The Real Housewives of Orange County and The Real Housewives of New York City, and thankfully, none of The Real Housewives of Atlanta, I had a thought.

If they had a Real Housewives of Chicago, what would they be holding in the promo shot?

For Orange County, they hold oranges.

For New York City, they hold golden apples.

For Atlanta, they hold peaches.

What would they do here...Sausages?

Yeah, no. Not as sexy.

Other ideas?

Committed Relationship

As I sat in the salon chair today, sipping on hot coffee in a tiny little glass cup, something occurred to me.

My hair stylist, the dear and beautiful Kathy, is my longest Chicago relationship.

(besides my ex-roommate, Jill, of course)

I have been seeing her every eight weeks for the last eight and a half years. I knew that it was "right" from our first time together. Loyal to her and to her only, I have not cheated. I have paid dallying glances to cheaper "quick cut" spots when finances were tight, but rather than going elsewhere, I just went without. Okay, that's not entirely true. I did, just once, go somewhere else and get a cheapie haircut, and the hack job I received quickly proved me the fool. I went back to Kathy and sheepishly admitted my mistake. She forgave me at once.

I'm proud of my relationship with her. I tell other people about her and compliment her traits to anyone who will listen.

She doesn't change her mind about how she feels about me. She doesn't decide, after a lengthy commitment, that 'something is missing.' She doesn't talk about other clients and she doesn't compare me to anyone else. She tells me I'm beautiful, and leaves me looking better than when I first arrived.

We talk about our families, our friends, our jobs, our loves, our losses, our vacations, our clothes and our dreams. We hug hello, and hug goodbye. It is affectionate and charming, and I know that she really knows me when I come in. It isn't as if she has to check the book to see what my name is. We're "in."

I've grown up in that chair.

I've gone from the "Chicago virgin" in 2000, to "comfortable resident" in the years following, to "permanent gal" when I bought a condo here in 2005, to the present. I have had four different jobs, been through two layoffs, had three different addresses and four different haircuts while we've been together.

Of course, I will continue to see her. I'm proud to say that I've got an eight-and-a-half year relationship going.

With confirmed dates, complete with a hair wash and a head massage, every eight weeks.

I can't complain.

*Shameless plug on her behalf here: go to J. Gordon Designs in Lincoln Park and ask for Kathy. You won't be disappointed. Tell her I sent you!

All We Need is Love (and Great Boots)

Today, I have decided to celebrate love. Not the love that is manufactured by Hallmark and perpetuated by chocolate and pink hearts, or even the love that is between two people in an exclusive relationship, but the genuine and much broader definition—the kind for which I am so grateful.

And, true to the title, I will make this long story short. Bulleted, even. Let you get back to loving those that you are fortunate to have in your life.

• While I am celebrating this year on my own, I couldn't be happier that my sister has a dear man in her life. It is enough to just hear her share stories of their dates, laugh about their time together, to know that she's being adored and taken care of. I am so grateful that George came into Lauren's life, and I am thrilled that she has her very own special Valentine.


• I am hosting a few of my best friends over for dinner and drinks tonight, and that is just so great. I'm thrilled to open my house and my kitchen so that we can all merge our favorite dishes and celebrate each other this way. I'm serving chocolate mousse martinis (with raspberries, chocolate cookie sticks and chocolate shavings) and I'm pretty sure that at least one of us will say "I love chocolate." That's a good thing.


• Opening today's mail proved worthwhile—I got a small square box from my parents that held a bag of chocolate candies, a t-shirt for St. Patrick's Day that says "Everyone loves an Irish girl" and the nicest card I've received in quite some time. I am lucky to have their love every day and today is no exception.


• My dear friend Jill left me a lovely little card as a surprise with my doorman, and her lovely parents sent me one in the mail. They sent me a Valentine! I couldn't believe it, and can't quite express how good it feels to know that I'm appreciated for the role I play in Jill's life. She is definitely always going to be one part my Valentine—I'm pretty sure her husband will share.


• As I subtly mentioned yesterday, I have a new "pen pal" and just getting the lovely little chatty emails has brightened my days and made me realize that I am pretty awesome. I will survive. And, I realized this week, that I will love again, and that if it could be that good with the not-so-right guy, think about how great it will be with the right guy!? I'm encouraged.


• I am back working, doing what I love, and so far the people I'm working with couldn't be kinder, funnier and smarter. I'm in the right place, and isn't that a feeling we all love and treasure?


• I got to reconnect last night with my good friend, and former client, Melissa who has since moved from Chicago, traveled the world with her husband, and has landed back in her hometown of Sydney, Australia. When we talked last night, it was as if a 17-hour time difference, thousands of miles and two years since we last saw each other didn't exist. Good phone calls like that? I just love.


• I bought myself a huge bunch of bright lemon yellow hydrangeas today, to fill the grass green pitcher that I use for a fresh flower vase, and they are smiling at me from across the living room. Who says the flowers have to be red, pink or white? And, more importantly, who says they have to be sent from someone else? I think that keeping beautiful things close by is something that we deserve, and it makes me feel self-loved.


• And, finally, I stopped into Nordstrom Rack on my way home from work last night, and spotted, buried in a chaotic shoe aisle where only the tall girls and big footers go, a pair of buttery, brown, leather riding boots (with soft dark brown sweater accents), nestled there in the rack with clearance Ugg-knockoffs and stiletto pumps. I picked them up, only to discover that they were the exact same boots that I'd admired a few weeks ago (back in my unemployed days) while "shopping" the boutiques on Southport with Jill. They were $275 there, and not my size anyway. I longingly left them there, but wished I could spend that kind of money on frivolous boots. Well, looky here people, the universe brought them to me anyway. How's that for footwear karma? And, as you guessed it, they were my size, and the only pair in the store. Oh, and they were WAY discounted from that boutique's price. They're in my closet, just reminding me that every now and then, it is ok to love yourself. With new shoes.

See? I am in a good place, and am thrilled to celebrate the love we share with friends, family and each other. And, you know what?

I love myself. And, that feels pretty darn good.

Go hug someone.

That feels good, too.

Step One: Connect A to B

This world is an interesting one.

The advent of technology has made our lives better, yet it has also crippled the essential truths of our lives.

We are so completely connected, yet we still keep our distance.

We are so totally visible, yet we still hide behind so much.

We are terribly open, yet we still seize up when someone gets too close.

We reach out, yet are not really touching each other.

These observations came to me full hilt today as I communicated back and forth with someone that I've never met in person, a blog reader from thousands of miles away, but with whom I was being startlingly honest.

I write a blog. I have a Facebook page. I have not one, or two, but three email accounts. I have an instant messenger account with a lengthy buddy list. I have a LinkedIn profile for professional networking. I have three iPods in varying sizes and capacities. I have two laptops, one on each platform. I pay bills online. I have a TiVo and a DVD player. I have a cell phone that is also a Blackberry. I have photo sharing accounts with Picasa, Flickr, Snapfish and Kodak Gallery. I have a Twitter account that I barely understand.

I text. I type. I write. I call. I answer.

I'm always connected, always available, always visible, always communicating, always ready.

Yet, I find myself still dodging the eye contact of strangers in an elevator, for fear that they'll strike up a painfully awkward casual conversation.

Yet, I still wear headphones, connected to a miniature iPod, to drown out the hum of the buses, the vibrations of my own mind, and most importantly, the idle chatter of strangers on the bus.

Yet, I dodge calls when I am unable to make the chatty pleasant conversation that the friend so desperately deserves.

Yet, I read about everyone else's lives, through blogs or Facebook status updates, but don't reach out to actually talk to those that I'm so seemingly interested in.

None of this likely makes me different.

It just makes me sad.

We're so visible, yet desire an invisibility.

We're so in touch, yet often go days without touch.

We're so open, yet live with such closed minds.

We're so starving for relationships, yet we refuse to put ourselves out there.

We're so communicative, yet we don't know how to talk to each other.

We're so free, yet behave so restrictedly.

We're in hiding, aided, supported and facilitated by the very technology that is intended to create a seamless, interconnected, highly transparent world.

We're so connected, yet so afraid to connect.

What kind of technology will it take to get us to be what we should innately know how to be?

What will it take for us to, finally, be in touch?

Dear Mr. President

I'd like to make a teensy weensy request of President Obama.

Just a small one.

It doesn't require Congressional support, media coverage, lots of zeros or even a fancy suit, tie and podium.

Nope.

So, here goes.

Dear President Obama,

I am a faithful, law abiding, concerned citizen of your hometown state of Illinois. I reside and pay hefty taxes and ridiculous gas prices in your banner city of Chicago.

I wear my seat belt, I use my blinker, I park legally and I drive with caution.

I vote in elections, even in the lame Alderman and Court Judge ones, despite the political corruption that you've luckily (and hopefully) evaded thus far.

I put up with the snowy winters, short summers and crowded street festivals, all in the name of living in this great city.

I read books (and not just online blogs), I buy newspapers (and not just for the crossword puzzles), I watch public television (and not just for the celebrity charity concerts) and I legally buy music (and not just the iTunes free download on Tuesdays).

I work hard, filed unemployment legally, pray at night and call my parents regularly.

I give money to homeless people (who in turn use it to buy not so nice things, I'm sure) and I help little old ladies cross the street and board the bus (and not just so I can get out of the cold faster).

Basically, I'm a good person.

So, with all of that said, I ask a tiny little insignificant favor of you, Mr. President.

Can you please just create a ban to outlaw advertising of all things Valentine's Day? Just this year?

This would include, for your reference and convenience (I know you're a busy man) the following products and categories:

-jewelry companies
-lingerie brands
-florists
-vacation getaways
-chocolatiers
-fancy restaurants
-all boutique gift stores
-Walgreens, CVS, Hallmark, American Greetings and local card shops
-Match.com, Chemistry.com, eHarmony.com and even those late night infomercials for tele-loving

That would be great, thanks. Could you please enact this bill immediately?

My single friends and I appreciate you. David Plouffe? If you're reading this, I owe you one. And a hefty donation.

It would be worth it.

Kind regards,

Lonely in Lakeview

Enclosures: Bittersweets Candy, shown below in this year's "dumped" edition!

Next Up, Skydiving

This may come as a surprise, but I'm an extreme sport athlete.

Don't believe me?

Have you ever tried to ride the 135 bus home wearing stiletto boots?

That were slippery from the ice packed around the bus shelter?

Were you there when the driver took the Oak Street curve going upwards of 50 mph?

Hanging on to the bar with one gloved hand?

While reading a book?

That you couldn't put down?

Wishing you could sit?

Knowing that sooner or later you would end up in someone's lap?

That is extreme...

Lest you still disbelieve my extreme sport skills, I give you this:


Me. Surmounting the crest. In 14" of snow. Wearing snow shoes. Winded, smiling, triumphant. At the top. Completing the journey.

(Of the 3rd hole on the Waveland Park golf course.)

Ok. I am not that extreme. But, I may have to take extreme measures.

I am considering investing in cleats for my bus ride home.

New Year, New Blog Home

Welcome to my new home! If you are joining me from my other blog, "Chicago Commuter Commentary," then I welcome you with open arms, and appreciate you following me all the way over here to "Long Story Short..."

I look forward to connecting with new readers, and to re-connecting with my beloved followers. To explain the move over here I provide you with the below explanation. And, this is to reassure you travelers who joined me from my other blog home that you've found the right place.

Welcome home.

I have always been a storyteller.

It started when I was young, and would tell and retell stories to anyone who would sit still long enough to listen.

As I got older, and my friendships grew deeper, my girls would laugh and listen and provide me with an attentive audience for my stories. However, they noticed quickly that if distracted, or inspired, I would travel off track of the original story to embellish a detail or to expand on a part of the side or back story that, in my mind, allowed the listener a broader and more thorough understanding of the main story. They immediately tagged me a "backtracker" who often got so off track that I had trouble finding my way back to the gist.

They were wrong, however.

I could always, given the chance, find my way back to the intended story, and felt that the level of details only improved their listening experience. In order to keep the stories on track, and to a reasonable length of telling, they teasingly granted me two "backtracks" per story.

I insist that these limitations don't do much for the quailty of my stories, but I must trust my audience and grant them that much at least. I also must recognize that my friends are heavy talkers too, and often stop or stall the story midway through to tell their side, their point of view or their recollection of said incident. My one friend, who knows who she is, always listened intently without interruption, and rarely received much acclaim in this area - except for a knowing glance from me.

As I got even older, and learned the art of storytelling requires the creation of a true two-way street, or a dialogue, I realized that the storyteller must also be a good listener, asking questions of the audience. This communication skill has served me well in both my personal and professional life. I would hope that my friends would recognize that I'm not a belligerent talker, but rather I create a conversation through my stories.

It hasn't ever hurt that I have a good memory, and can often recall a story with incredible detail and recognition, but this too has changed as I have aged. I sometimes now forget the details and require some assistance in my storytelling. The stories can get long, albeit not arduous (I hope!) and my friends have requested that I re-tell the same story often to spark a laugh, a conversation or to relive a moment we had previously shared.

I will admit one thing, though. I must.

My stories are long. Like my blog posts. If you've been reading for some time, I have a way of describing something so it really digs into the truth, or the details, in order to convey a feeling, an observation or a moment of time.

This situation has created a silly little habit. I often find myself saying, "long story short..." before I continue.

It never really is.

I admit it, and am willing to take the blame.

And, use this habit as the segue into this newly re-located, newly re-named blog.

I designed my own header because I believe captures very much the truth of who I am. Featured above, it shows an open book (because I am, and I am also a lover of words, writing, reading and everything book-related), a photo of Chicago (because so many of my stories include her as a central character), a photo of me (because really, it's all about my point of view) and a peach on the vine (which demonstrates that I haven't lost, or forgotten, my Georgia roots).

New year, new job, new blog.

A fresh start.

Please update your bookmarks to reflect this change, tell fellow readers about the move and visit me here as often as you like. I look forward to a shorter, more concise URL and a new home for my future stories.

With limited backtracks, I hope.