The Naked Truth

When I first moved to Chicago, I ran with a pretty great, and huge, crowd of people who had all gone to the same college. Yes, I just said "I ran with..." like I was 87 years old. Moving on.

What this meant for my social life was that I had friends always crowding the corner of the bar at the local pub, our house parties were legendary, and we even had a rousing men vs. women Cranium tournament. Life was good.

The only drawback to this deep and tightly knit circle was that they all knew each other. And the others that lived in town.

Meaning, as a newly transplanted southern girl looking to meet new people (read: hot guys), I was cautious about my actions. Not that I would have been a raging fool if it weren't for their guidance, but you know, it just cause me to think harder about on whom I turned my attention.

Case in point. At a bar one night, I'm approached by a very nice looking, well-dressed guy. We make casual small talk. We laugh. And flirt. And then, while he leaned down to tie his shoe, I notice my three guy friends standing behind him giving me the "we'll slit your neck if you do something stupid" gesture combined with hearty head shakes.

I'm not an idiot - I could read that message loud and clear. When nice looking, well-dressed guy went to the bar, I slid over to the guys and asked what was the reason for their red flag signal. They imparted some insider information about Said Guy's antics, and ahem, reputation, in college.

I was turned off, and promptly finished up my chat with Said Guy and went back to my friends.

I escaped that time.

Over the next few years, as I became more and more comfortable with my Chicago surroundings, I realized that I saw Said Guy all over town. For a good long summer, it seemed that I ran into him every Saturday night. Not always in the same place, either. I even thought at one point that he may be following me.

He always approached, flirted and chatted me up. I flirted back (as I said before, I'm not a total idiot) because I enjoyed the attention, and then left him wondering why I hadn't fallen prey to his wily charm. He clearly wasn't used to getting turned down.

Not that he was asking every time, but it was clear that if I'd given him even the slightest hint of a green light, he'd ask me out.

It became my own little version of the cat and mouse game, and it was awfully good for the ego. Especially when my girlfriends (new to me, and to him) would nod and smile excitedly as he approached, and look at me with huge silver-dollar-sized-eyes as I inevitably turned down his advances.

Explaining that his reputation preceded him, they allowed me to cut him off.

And so it went. For years.

Finally, it became funny. Said Guy would show up at the same place as I; we would laugh, talk, hug and then flirt. And joke about which one of us was stalking whom. I'm still convinced I was the stalkee, but that's just my take.

In the fourth or fifth year I'd lived here, I saw Said Guy yet again. He seemed especially charming that night. Or I'd had especially too many vodka lemonades. When my friends were itching to leave early, and he asked if I'd go with him to a party nearby, I obliged. I know, I know. Slow learner.

Anyway, we got in a cab and went towards the building where the party was being held. As we entered the lobby of the building, I noticed that the doorman gave him a nod of what I could only deem was recognition. There was no hesitant fumbling and "uhm, which way is the elevator" or anything that indicated he hadn't been there before.

I chalked it up to his having been to this buddy's house before. It happens.

As we exited the elevator on the third floor, I heard the distinct sound of keys tinkling in his hand. I looked up at him, and said with a great deal of sarcasm in my voice, "you have keys to this party?" In his full-on cocky manner, he said, "uh, no. I want to drop my coat off first."

Hell-o? Where are we doing said drop-off? Oh, right. In your condo. Which, conveniently is right here.

I fall for it a bit, mostly out of curiosity to see his place. Not many guys I knew at the time (or now, for that matter) live alone, in a condo, and live well. I was curious if the well-dressed man equaled a well-appointed condo.

Uh, yeah.

It did. As he held the door open for me, I entered the hallway onto dark cherry hardwood flooring. Then noticed what had to be 20-foot ceilings. And a perfect kitchen complete with Viking appliances and granite counter tops from here to there. With an island the size of my living room. And gorgeous cabinets.

My eyes drifted past that to the walls with the enormous artwork. Real stuff - not posters of sports figures or neon beer signs. Nope. This guy had hired a decorator. There were two bedrooms, and a hall bathroom resplendent with marble and dark wood and a mirror without even a trace of toothpaste on it.

Just past the perfectly dressed living room, with just the right blend of modern and transitional furniture, I see the wrap around semi-circle balcony with a grill, tables, chairs, lounges and potted plants. And, just beyond, the skyline view that encapsulated every key building in Chicago from the Hancock Building to the Sears Tower. Bookend to bookend, this view had it all.

Said Guy drank in the look on my face, and continued the tour.

Then, I saw the master closet. He proudly opened the door, and I sucked in my breath. It looked like Brooks Brothers. The store on Michigan Avenue...NOT the outlet mall. Every shelf was dark wood, and the hangers were matching and evenly spaced to allow his beautiful clothing to hang just so. His shoes all faced the same direction, and his ties hung neatly in a row. Even his t-shirts had a neatly organized home.

I could not decide if this guy was a dream man or was undoubtedly gay, pretending to be straight. Come on. It could happen.

Either way, he fixed me a drink as I remember that we're supposed to be going to a party upstairs. When I mentioned it, he laughed and said with an evil grin, "there is no party." I have blond hair, but I'm hardly stupid. I still thought this was a fancy pit-stop on the way to his buddy's place.

Maybe it was the closet, or maybe it was the drink he fixed me, but I was a little more than curious. And, felt a little amorous. After all, Said Guy talked the talk, clearly walked the walk, and made me feel just the right combination of powerful and powerless.

I excused myself to the restroom to freshen up and I heard him follow me into his bedroom (he wanted me to see his master bathroom - showoff - so I went in there) and listened while he took off his shoes. No biggie, I desperately wanted to ditch my heels, so I could understand.

Not more than three minutes later, as I dried my hands off on his Egyptian cotton towels, I turned off the light in the bathroom and opened the door.

It was dark in his bedroom, but in the light of the city glow, I could see that he was laying on the bed.

Asleep.

Completely naked.

Uhm, hell-o?

What exactly did he think was going to happen here?

Needless to say, I walked into the kitchen, half laughing and half mortified, and got my coat.

Thinking quickly, I decided I wanted to leave him a note to remind him, when he woke up (in case he had a propensity to forget things while imbibing) that I'd been here, but was not here anymore.

I scrambled in the kitchen to locate a pen. I found one, and then tore off a paper towel (who doesn't keep a notepad with the pens?) and scribbled, "SAID GUY, I left. -Colleen."

I used his name. But not here. I changed his name to protect the not-so-innocent.

And naked.

I exited the building, gave the doorman a sardonic smirk, and hailed a cab home.

I never heard from the guy again.

Several years passed, and I started seeing him occasionally, mostly from a distance, on Michigan Avenue. Near my office. In the lobby of a building. Walking in front of Nordstrom. Leaving Starbucks.

And, each time, I got embarrassed and looked away, turned around, or otherwise diverted the situation.

Not sure why I was the embarrassed one, but I was. Time was kind, and I hadn't seen him in years.

Until last Wednesday.

In the lobby of my office building.

Again, I repeated the "dodge his eye and go the other way" move and managed to avoid a run-in. Because really? What would I have said?

Good to see you again, this time with your eyes open and clothes on?

Yeah, I don't think so.

So, I'm having lunch with my co-worker today, and something reminds me to tell her that story. She'd been traveling last week or she would have heard it immediately. I told her the entire story, (long story is never really short, come on) and we get quite a good belly laugh about the whole thing.

We even played the name game to see if her friend who works in Said Guy's industry may know him. We plotted a call to her as soon as we get back upstairs to our office. We conceded that maybe he was here in our building for a meeting - he was in a suit at the time - and she laughed again about the sheer nakedness of it all.

Leaving lunch, I dropped my tray off at the garbage can, gathered my purse and fountain drink, and walked with her to the lobby.

I looked up, and not 25 feet away, is Said Guy. In a suit. Walking through the turnstiles that indicate that his office is in THIS building.

He glanced in our direction right as I noticed him. I squealed quietly, grabbed my friend's arm and whisper-yelled to her, "that's him! Oh my God, that's him!"

She can hardly believe it, and I can hardly believe it when she starts to speed up. She wanted a closer look, naturally.

We zoomed through the turnstile about 10 feet behind him. I didn't see him turn left into our elevator bank, so as we careened around the corner, I finally am face-to-face him, with two other suit-clad guys, right as the elevator door opened.

Now, if I'd had MY way, there's no chance in hell I would have voluntarily boarded the elevator with them. But my friend wanted to. She needed "a good view."

Mortified, and unsure why I continue to be the embarrassed one, I followed her. I dodged his eye, and positioned myself right in front of the elevator door with my back to him and his buddies.

We stood there, staring ahead, while the guys talked amongst themselves behind us. I couldn't even think I'm trying so hard not to laugh. I may not have breathed the entire way up to the 39th floor.

We exited at our floor, about six floors below his, and waited until the door closes behind us before we burst.

Laughing out loud, folded over, barely breathing, neither of us could speak.

What are the odds?

I am pretty sure God has a sense of humor.

Let's just be glad this guy fell into the Vortex.

Not Much and Everything

I graduated from college 10 years ago today.

Just saying that makes me feel old. College feels like forever ago. More than a decade, actually.

But, at the same time, it has flown by. It feels like yesterday that I packed up my senior year apartment and moved home to my parents house. For the summer only, mind you.

In true "Long Story Short..." fashion, I offer up to you, this May 2009, a 10-year retrospective on the last 10 years of my life. I hope you enjoy walking back down this very long, often crooked, always scenic walk down memory road with me. It's more than a lane, I'll confess. It's a long road.

1999:
We were partying like it was 1999. I graduated from college, drove the 60 miles back from Athens, Georgia to my hometown of Atlanta, clutching my Summa Cum Laude diploma, crying the whole way. I was gainfully employed, scheduled to start two days later, at the Atlanta Hawks, fulfilling what I thought at the time was my dream career. I worked for three weeks, then set off on the pre-arranged backpacking tour through Europe with Mandi and Anna. I learned a lot, drank a lot, walked a lot, and slept very little as we saw 12 countries in less than six weeks. After that trip, I knew I could conquer the real world. I had another thing coming. My first year as a "marketing professional" was met with long hours, minimal pay, challenging clients, sexism in a 'boys club' environment and my very first post-college apartment with two girls that I didn't know very well. My Honda Accord was reliable, my "kissing makes me claustrophobic" boyfriend was not.

2000:
The work with the NBA was eye-opening in so many ways as I traversed the sports world with a level of combined naivete and knowing. I met interesting people, made barely enough money to cover my rent, and balanced living with roommates with missing college. At a cousin's wedding in June, I made the pivotal decision that would pave the path of my next decade: I ordered another glass of wine. That wine led to a tipsy conversation, with me emboldened and curious, with Molly as to what life would be like if I moved with her to Chicago. Five days later, I'd pulled the trigger, signed a lease and was making big plans. I'd never been to Chicago, but in September of 2000, after quitting my job, selling Rhonda the Honda to a little lady named Phyllis, saying a very tearful and heartfelt goodbye to my family and the Posse, I moved there in a U-Haul with all of my belongings. Living with Molly, Jill and Shannon changed my life. I laughed more than I knew was possible, saw more snow than I knew existed, drank more Appletinis than was normal, prank called the 7-Eleven all too often, dominated the boys in Cranium, hosted parties with our four young (cute) neighbor guys, cheered for a host of KU games and befriended many people with whom I would share many a bar stool over what we deemed "our freshman and sophomore years in Chicago." The soundtrack for this year would have to include David Gray, U2, Coldplay, Shaggy and Wyclef Jean. Turns out Wyclef was wrong: there is no such thing as a Perfect Gentleman. At least, not yet.

2001:
In my Chicago Sophomore year, I was working at a small design firm where my boss didn't like me, but I solidified my love of the marketing process. We were still young enough to go out on a Tuesday and stay up way too late on a weeknight and still look shiny and fresh for a 9 am meeting. Life was good. I dated a lot, kissed many frogs, but still enjoyed the nights with my girls most of all. My visits back to Atlanta were mostly for holidays and weddings, as my friends' lives changed in different ways than mine did. The entire world changed in September of that year, and it shook me to my core to be evacuated out of the office that was located near the Federal Building and within "crumble-range" of the Sears Tower. I was still pretty broke, but lived large in my own eyes. I cut my hair super short and felt good. In October, I finally saw U2 in concert for the first time - and was moved - especially during the 9/11 tribute set to "One." Eight years later, the song still carries deeper meaning for me than it did before. The thickness and length of winter continued to surprise me, but so did the attitude of most Chicagoans; the feeling that the weather doesn't stop you from going to the party - it is just another guest at the event. I bought a lot of scarfs that year.

2002:
Following the market, my small design firm began a year-long layoff that began, unfortunately, in April with me and several other colleagues. It was my first time at "failure," despite the fact that I knew, cognitively, that it wasn't to do with me personally, but I took it hard. Filing unemployment, and going on a first date, the same week as getting laid off of my second job out of college was humbling. The guy understood, and our "relationship" endured through the summer as we luxuriated in the warmth that is Chicago summer. Molly and Shannon, after two wonderful and hilarious years in Chicago, moved to LA to pursue bright lights, big jobs and a boyfriend. Not the same one. Jill and I made our way north, to my first 'brownstone' apartment. I felt very urban. And, finally employed. As the year closed, I had accepted a job in healthcare marketing at a small, privately held firm, and anticipated the new year with glee. And, promptly quit the hostessing job at Flat Top Grill. My entire closet smelled like stir fry anyway.

2003:
Winter granted me experience shoveling a backyard, a few opportunities to dig out Jill's jeep from the ice-packed alley, and a new friendship with Kristen, as we shared an office together and grew to become more than co-workers. We moved offices twice and I got really good at un-packing, decorating, packing and re-decorating my very own office. Work was challenging, and I surprised even myself as I took on more clients, bigger engagements and a heavier workload - and I loved every minute of it. Liz came to visit for Flug Tag, and we drank a lot of red bull, partied with a small-time MTV celebrity, and she fell off her bike. We flew with Luke high above the Chicago skyline and marveled at the huge city I called home. I also met Tracy and Brenna this year, two friendships that endure and strengthen today. The Atlanta wedding parade continued to impress. The bridesmaid dresses, however, did not.

2004:
Continuing to charade as an adult, I bought my first car this year, and made the 13-hour drive from Atlanta with it by myself. And didn't get lost. I participated in my first work photo shoot, and wore a box on my head willingly on camera. My mom and I went on a cruise to the Caribbean when I needed a break from the Chicago weather. I dated a Secret Service Agent and was simultaneously unnerved and turned on by the fact that he wore a gun to the office. In support of my Buckeye friends, I drove to Columbus and wore red and gray for a change, rather than red and black. Settling into my post-college life in Chicago, and my love for Matilda bar in Lakeview, I celebrated my golden birthday this year, turning 28 on the 28th.

2005:
Dating still consisted of a few great dates and then the guys falling into the vortex, and I spent a lot of time asking why. When summertime hit, I spent weekends sailing on Lake Michigan as Captain Vytas took the helm of his boat, and my career, serving us both well. Laura moved to Chicago, and instantly, when combined with me and Kristen, we became inseparable and bound for the good kind of trouble. And, quite often, the bad kind of hangover. With bruises. Admittedly, with some difficulty, I finally let go of my first love and congratulated his engagement. In a storm of emotions, I amicably separated from my five-year roommate Jill and bought my first piece of real estate this year. Additionally, I learned the hard way how difficult and stressful a renovation project can be, especially for a control freak. Despite the increasing signs advising me to leave, I stuck out a very tough fall at my job, helped re-brand a major medical university, secured the trust and devotion of many clients and turned the corner on my career.

2006:
Right after the new year, I dragged two great buddies, Sam and Jack, to Detroit (their hometown) for a visit to Jimmy Kimmel Live during the Superbowl. The boys got over not having tickets to the game when we arrived at the Sony VIP party where we met all sorts of famous people. I lost my sunglasses on St. Patrick's Day at Stanley's, but met a nice Irish guy. Traveling for work was the name of the game, and I spent a lot of time en route to Billings, Montana. Which, roughly translated, meant I slept on the floor of the Denver airport a few times too many. Not long after, I got dumped by the Irish guy via email, immediately after meeting his parents over Easter weekend in Wisconsin. Luckily, I knew we were not meant to be, and rebounded before I could say "inbox." Roadtripping with the girls, I experienced live concerts at Alpine Valley Amphitheater for the first time, and saw Dave Matthews Band and Coldplay under the stars. I watched my two dear friends, Tracy and Vytas, get married that fall, and was proud to witness their love. Without being a bridesmaid. Long in the making, I quit my job and took a new one at a larger B2B marketing firm, and quickly made a host of new friends. When Laura was mugged on the Blue Line on her way to Columbus for the OSU v. Michigan game, I sprang into action and drove her all the way to Columbus (speeding ticket not withstanding) and spent the weekend in scarlet/gray revelry. That December, I was slated to turn the big 3-0. At the end of the month. Little did I know, my friends Jill and Josh had other (surprise) plans for me. My Posse flew into town to mix and mingle with my Chicago buddies, and it was a weekend to remember. The snowstorm kept a lot of loved ones away, but couldn't put a damper on my mood. A trolley pub crawl for New Year's Eve turned out to be a great way to usher in the new year.

2007:
In need of some warm weather, I accompanied my OSU fans out west for the Championship game. The game stings a bit for them, but the road trip to Sedona almost made up for the loss. We explored the desert, saw books on the Vortex, drank margaritas and watched the sun set over the red rocks. Together, which was the best part. With a new job and new clients, I traveled the state of Illinois conducting wide-scale photo shoots for an amazingly clever, incredibly inspiring campaign. I enjoyed a new crush on a guy who was totally wrong for me, and proved my chops while interviewing a multi-billionaire for work. Liz's bachelorette party meant digging out an old bridesmaid dress and a weekend with the best girls. Her wedding that summer was an incredibly soaked (thanks to a tropical storm) but amazingly hilarious experience of love and friendship. My agency swept the industry awards, providing plaques to prove the hard work was worth it. We saw Indigo Girls from a blanket picnic at Ravinia, and toasted Kristen's 30th from a booze cruise on the lake. Josh proposed to Jill, and Katie and I made the trek following them up to Mackinac Island with the sailing gear, paid for by the captain. Gina made us proud on American Idol, which brought new fans to our old stomping grounds watching Then Again at Joe's. Tracy and her Captain Vytas set sail on their (still going) adventure, and after a weekend in Union Pier, I was heading for my own. Fall witnessed a girls' trip to Mexico, and we snorkled in caves, rode ziplines through the jungle, lounged by our own pool and drank margaritas with Tarzan, in what turned out to be the smartest money I'd spent in a long time. I took a chance and made my way to a birthday party across town, and changed the course of the next year of my life.

2008:
With a Bull's game and a game of 20 questions at the bar, a new relationship was formed. So was a late-night affinity for Rockband, a newfound love for the beaches of Michigan, and the people that reside there. The girls and I took advantage of box seats for Bon Jovi, and rocked out like it was the 80s all over again. When Molly turned 30, I flew out to join in the parade of love, expensive food and fancy clothes. I saw a lot of live music, took a painting class with Katie, went to a host of Cubs games, and did a lot of road trips for bonfires on the beach, capped off by V&Ts with just the right amount of lime and conversation. My sister met George, and I was the proud big sis listening to her tales of romance. And then it was pura vida - a week in Costa Rica with the Posse, their men and mine. We had a blast and learned, laughed and drank Imperials all the way through that jungle paradise. And, I had fallen in love. August brought Lollapalooza and a trip to Kalamazoo - how often do you get to use the letter "z" that much in one month? As summer wound down, the weddings wound up, including a trip to San Francisco for a cousin's wedding. I became a method maven, an Orbit Gum Girl and a 1920s flapper, all to round out the end of 2008. It was the best of times, soon followed by the worst of times. I was laid off from my job in October, and used the time to actively search for the right opportunity for my career.

2009:
As you know, if you've been reading for long, the beginning of this year has been rough, but is definitely on the uptick. I found a job that I love, and lost the love I'd enjoyed for the past year. Heartbreak takes time to heal, and I'm still working on it. Working has helped, as traveling became a big part of my full-time job;I can't complain about the 4-star hotels, the fancy dinners, the frequent flier miles and the great colleagues. Getting lost in Newark on the Turnpike, however...Spring is in full bloom, and so are the tulips in the city. The weather is warming and the crowds are forming in the park and along the shore of Lake Michigan. My sailing friends are pointing the boat home, and I can't wait to be here to welcome them into our loving harbor. My spirits are on the mend, even if my wrist is proving not to be the same. I have complete faith that summer will bring with it a renewed spirit, a host of new freckles for my shoulders, and a smile to my face.

I've learned a lot, loved a lot, grown a lot and aged a lot in the last 10 years since graduating college. I have met new friends, lost touch with a few, watched my friends become wives and mothers, I have had five jobs, all in the same career path. I have bought a bike, a car, insurance policies, a condo and a lot of new shoes. I have grown my hair long, cut it short, dyed it darker, highlighted it blonde and grown it back to its fighting length from high school. I have watched my figure change and realized that as I age, the hangovers last more than 15 minutes and an Advil. I now fully understand what it means to be held accountable at work, and am proud to work hard.

A lot has changed.

Ten years ago today, I was 22 years old and had nothing but hopes for the future. I was employed, loved, proud, vulnerable, confident and faithful. I was honest, giving, thoughtful, controlling, talkative, smart, curious, traveling, tall and blonde. I was ready for love and anxious to take on the world.

Not much has changed.

Cotton Gowns and Non-slip Socks

I pulled into the dingy parking garage and wound my way up to the fourth floor, the Frank Sinatra level, and settled into a parking spot. Dodging broken glass on the wet cement, I walked to the elevator, boarded the first to arrive, and went down two floors. The carpet hushed the sounds of my heels, and I paused to read the signage for directions.

Clutching my paperwork, I arrived at the empty waiting room and greeted the only person in the room. Received the clipboard, and followed his instructions. Page after page of personal information, all captured there in blue ball point pen. Handing him my identification and insurance card, I took a seat on the mauve and khaki upholstery and wondered why hospitals all hired the same out-of-touch decorator.

My feet swung in time with my heartbeat, which seemed more pronounced than usual. The assistant came to fetch me after a few short minutes, and his nervous small talk further added to the discomfort of the situation. Droning on and on about some small island in Florida that shared my last name, I politely nodded while chewing the inside of my cheek.

He led me through three electronic doors, opened by his badge, into a small locker room where I was to store my things. Handing me two soft, faded cotton gowns, he gave me my instructions, smiled feebly and left me alone. I quickly changed out of my clothes, put on the gowns so that one faced forward, and one faced backward, struggling to tie the latter around my back. Bending down, I put on the blue socks with the plastic grips on the bottom, and placed my things into the very slim locker, and slammed the door shut.

Sliding the stretchy band that held the key in place onto my right wrist, I padded silently into the second waiting room, directly off the locker area. I chose a seat in the middle of the abandoned room, and once again noted the overuse of mauve and vinyl. Distractedly, I thumbed through outdated magazines and read only the photo captions. Wincing, I got up to turn down the television that was mounted at an awkward angle above the corner table.

Sitting there, I had nothing to distract myself from the giant industrial clock that hung, crookedly, on the opposing wall. It was time for my appointment, yet I sat there alone. Half dressed and without any of my creature comforts. Why hadn't I kept my book out of the locker, I wondered to myself. Shaking my head, I sat there and waited.

Twenty-five minutes passed, and finally the door with the electronic lock and "authorized personnel only" placard opened. I sat upright, hoping that it was my turn and that this would all soon be over. A night janitor surveyed the room, nodded a tight-lipped smile and passed through the empty room without a word.

Fourteen minutes later, the door opened again. I'd long since read the three leftover periodicals, and now knew everything about last month's celebrity gossip and this month's society pages and this season's rheumatoid arthritis quarterly. Sleepily, I looked back at the clock. It was past nine o'clock in the evening on a Wednesday, and I'd much prefer to be at home, sitting alone, fully dressed without socks featuring underfoot grippers.

Finally, I give up and go back to the locker, retrieve the key from my plastic bracelet, and struggle to open the locker. With force, the door swings open and I reach in for my book. The door slams back, tightened by the underused springs in its hinge. The key must be a one-shot deal, I think to myself, and now I'm standing there holding my book when the radiology assistant opens the waiting room door, by the big clock and calls out for me.

Sheepishly, I admit that I'm in the locker room, and he rescues me, hands me another token and lets me put my book away. I mumble something about being bored, and he mumbles something, gently, about being sorry for the wait. He introduces himself, and we shake hands. We smile, embarrassed to be meeting as one of us stood in stocking feet and wearing two gowns, one facing each way, with knots all over in the flimsy ties.

I followed him to the "authorized personnel only" door, and into the cold, bland hallway. Padding silently on my handy grippers, I walk with him through three more doors, all accessed by his plastic badge. He's talking to me, explaining what I should expect as I go through this ordeal. He asks about my ponytail holder, to ascertain if it has any metal in it, and I nervously take it out and place it on the table with my key bracelet.

Shyly, I step toward the ominous machine that was lit from within. I notice the faint hum in the room, and can't help but see the electronic glow that the machines put off. He instructs me, with the help of his assistant, on how to lie down on the table, on my stomach, with my left arm up over my head. Gently, he locks my left hand and wrist into a casing and realizes how big it is for my arm. He stuffs two white washcloths into the casing to fill the empty space.

Placing a pillow under my fingers, he tapes my fingers down and then does the same to my protruding elbow. Warning me about not moving, he gives me a pillow to cushion my other arm, upon which I'm supposed to lean and place my head. He slides headphones onto my head, and I ask for help in moving my hair out of the way because I just know that that would have driven me crazy if left unfixed. His assistant asks me about my musical tastes. My mind is blank, or filled with nerves, and I can't even think of what I had for dinner, much less an intelligent and hip choice in tunes.

Assistant chooses Alternative Vibe from the internet radio station list, and turns on the music. It is so faint I can still hear them talking, even though they were many feet behind me. Someone placed a blanket on my legs, either for the chill or in a polite and gentlemanly gesture to cover the poor girl's legs. He adjusts the table because I'm so tall, and I bristle at how that almost sounded like an insult. Within a minute, I'm sliding forward, the top of the headphones are scraping the ceiling of the machine, and the world closes in around me.

I close my eyes. I had to. The light was strange, the space was small and my breaths were shallow and coming quickly. I tried to rest my face on the pillow they'd provided, but only too late I realize how awkwardly it was placed, and just make do. I know I can't move once they get started, so I cough, blink, swallow and flinch all at once.

The faceless voice tells me over the very hushed sounds of Coldplay that we're ready to begin. And then the sounds start. Softly, gently, rhythmically at first, and growing more and more obtrusive and horrifying. The rhythm is disrupted and the panic sets in. I count. I breathe. I pray. I keep my eyes closed, for the one time they'd flown open I regretted it instantly. The darkness of my own thoughts was better than feeling trapped inside that fiberglass growling dragon.

I startle every time the tempo or the sound changes, every time the momentum of the sounds is broken and interrupted by the new, more obstinate noise begins its cycle. I realize how much my wrist hurts in this plastic mold, and the terribly unnatural angle of the whole thing starts to make my whole body ache. My right arm, the one holding up my upper body and serving as a terrible resting place for my head, is smashed against something awful and is starting to throb. My entire body is throbbing, actually, and I can only focus on the pain. I start counting my heart beat because I can feel it pulsing through to my sore wrist.

I realize at this point that the machine is far too loud for any trickle of the Alternative Vibe to reach my ears, and give in to the experience. I feel near tears by the time Radiology Guy tells me we have 15 minutes to go, in his pseudo-cheerful voice. We're only halfway there. It felt like two weeks already.

When it is finally over, I can hardly wait to unleash my poor wrist from the torture chamber stuffed with washcloths and rub it gently and tenderly. I look into the eyes of the two strangers who help me to a seated position and tell them it was far worse than I'd expected. They both nodded, telling me that everyone says that. The MRI is not a day at the beach, that's for sure, one guy chuckled. The first technician places a hand on my shoulder and gives me the patient pep talk about how well I did. In a blur, I stand up, walk to the table and try to put my hair band back in. I wince while attempting that maneuver, and abandon that idea. Assistant guy walks me back to the locker room, which, after he left, was empty once again.

Dressing quickly, I stuff the gowns and socks into the soiled linen basket and make my way through the electronic doors back to the now empty registration desk. Down the elevator, through the carpeted halls and back through to the parking garage. I pay the machine and get back to my car.

It's only then that I finally give in to the tears, and let them slide down my face. I realize, at that very moment, how my decision to live so far away from my family has put me in this position. How being single has created this exact slice of time where I'm at the hospital, in the dark, after ten o'clock at night, feeling vulnerable and nervous and tired and in pain, alone.

Accelerating onto Lake Shore Drive, I dial my parents' phone number. Glancing at the clock, I hope that I won't wake them, since it is a Wednesday, and they are an hour ahead. My mom, breathless or tired, answers the phone. Her voice makes me crack. When I have to speak, my voice betrays my feelings and I feel relieved, comforted and embarrassed. I am an adult, and I'm crying for my mother, to my mother, about something that was not that big of a deal.

It isn't that I don't have perspective. My experience getting an MRI on a sore wrist is peanuts compared to what so many people endure. Nothing when it comes to the timeline of my life—not even a hatch mark.

However, for me, it was a moment that made me question my decisions. Second-guess my choices. And yet, simultaneously, reflect on my blessings. I am so grateful to still have my family to lean on, and most days, I'm proud to be a mature, self-sufficient, thriving young woman living alone in the big city.

But, for that moment, I felt very alone.