the quarter-century mark

I've been 25 for two days now. I don't really feel any older or wiser or that much closer to 30 (even though that last part is so very true). I do feel happy. Successful. And maybe I am a bit wiser than when I turned 24 (at least I would hope so).

My birthday celebration was Friday night at a trendy bar in my neighborhood. I had never actually been there before which meant I had little to no expectations. (I was also a bit nervous, of course, that my friends would think it was awful. Only one of them did.) Many of my friends showed for the party, most of them coworkers (another sign that I am getting older, right?). These many friends bought me many shots and drinks and, when Saturday rolled around, I was feeling pretty rough (additional sign of my aging). I spent my actual birthday at two bars in Lincoln Park, watching football (Go Bears!), drinking beer after beer, and eating greasy bar food. The crowd was random and, as it always happens in Chicago, I ran into a few different people I knew. The end result? Unintentionally staying out for 10 hours on a Sunday and coming home very drunk. At least I had Monday off.

This year, for some reason, my birthday didn't feel like my birthday. It kinda came out of nowhere and just happened. I didn't see any of my family members this weekend and I spent the majority of my actual day of birth with people who are not my close friends. I didn't expect any special gifts or anything (actually, I gave up on that awhile ago), so when friends of mine ask what I got for my birthday, I don't have much to tell them. Sure, I got some money from relatives, a gift certificate from one roommate and a handmade necklace from the other. I'm going to dinner with a friend tomorrow night and out with my mom on Saturday. It's all very nice, but all I really wanted was what I got on Friday night, spending time with my favorite people. Is that another sign that I'm getting older? Or just wiser?

dancing with myself

I think growing up as an only child turned me into a very solitary person. I like being alone. Many times, I crave being alone. Walking home from work, I get excited when the lights are off in my apartment and no one is there. I am left to do what I want, when and where I want to do it. There is no forced conversation. There is no sharing. There is just me.

This love of solitude (or perhaps I am just very introverted) has manifested itself in me doing lots of things on my own. Dining, shopping, going to the movies. And last weekend, for the first time, I went out alone.

No, I didn't just head into a bar alone, trying to mix and mingle with random 20somethings. It was a party for a co-worker. I knew that I would most likely know quite a few people at the party. But it was still going to a bar by myself. I wasn't really meeting any friends there. I was just showing up. Alone. To be honest, I was a little apprehensive. None of my friends were able to join me that night and I really wanted to go. Rather than be lame and just stay home (knowing that Sunday morning I would regret not going), I drank 3/4 of a bottle of wine and went to the party.

You know what? I had a blast. It was one of the best nights I've had in a long time. You see, going out alone has all the perks of going out (drinks, dancing, flirting, mingling) without the annoyances of friends (getting too drunk, wanting to leave, not having fun, fighting with boyfriends). The whole night I wandered around the bar, chatting with the various people I knew and meeting new folks. I danced. I drank. I stayed out way too late. But when I wanted to leave (somewhere around 3:15 when we had gone to another bar), I could just say goodbye and hop in a cab. There was no one else to convince that it was time to go.

On Sunday morning when I woke up, there was nothing to regret except that last gin & tonic.

weekends a go-go

My Friday off from work was timed perfectly. Somehow, I always manage to do that.

I worked like crazy Monday through Thursday. 48 hours. In four days. Tuesday was the worst at 16.5 hours. When my boss told me we would be going home close to 5 on Thursday night, I was ecstatic. Leaving that early felt like having a half day. After a few late nights in a row, I was not only exhausted, but also ready to leave the office during daylight. It had gotten to the point where I cared little about the weather because I knew it wouldn't affect me (sitting at my computer all day). Predicting rain or thunderstorms? No need to bring my umbrella - I'll most likely be expensing a cab home at 10:30 pm.

But that's all over, at least until another hellish week in August.

My mom and I planned to spend a day together on Friday and, luckily, my bosses were nice enough not to cancel it even though work was so busy. After the second late night, I really started looking forward to my Friday. Not being at work was enough to keep me happy. And getting off on time Thursday evening made it even better. I came home and napped before going to a late dinner at a new tapas restaurant in my neighborhood.

Friday was perfect. The weather was beautiful, although a bit hot. My mom and I met at 10 and walked straight to the Museum of Contemporary Art. Our primary reason for going was the Andy Warhol/Supernova exhibit (which ends Sunday), but neither of us had been to the MCA since it moved locations. There were other temporary exhibits that were just as interesting, if not more, than the one we planned to see. A photography exhibit on the first floor occupied most of time when we arrived at the MCA. I loved it, but I would have preferred to study the photos of penises without my mom at my side.

After the MCA, we had a long lunch. One of my favorite things about my mom is how we talk. We talk about any and everything, and we are constantly asking each other for advice. So lunch went long, mostly because we just needed some face time with each other. It had been over a month.

I didn't want my perfect day to end there, but I didn't have any evening plans. My roommate Anne and I ended up on the couch watching too many hours of programming on the Style network (I do not recommend this). After hour three, we determined we were better than this and vowed to have a good night out (and not on the couch). My Warhol day came full circle once we got to Sonotheque a few hours later where the theme of the night was Sono-a-gogo. Anne felt like we were at the Factory with the drinks, 60s music, go-go boots, and films on the wall. I ordered a few gin & sodas and was having a great time despite the strange Dutch man with sour breath who wouldn't leave me alone.

After go-going for awhile, we left and went another bar and then to Anne's friend's place. Drinking wine, gin, and beer had made me quite the drowsy girl and I quickly passed out. Waking around 4, I was confused and left without Anne. All the while knowing that I might have to work today.


But there was no work today. Just sun worshipping in the afternoon and random parties (rained-out Taste of Randolph, wine, pizza, & Catchphrase, and a warehouse/gallery party where the temperature was about 95 degrees and we rummaged through the messy kitchen for some booze like we were 17 again) all night. I managed to maintain my three-day weekend and have a great time being a neighborhood whore with Anne.

Photojournal to come.

things could be looking up

Saturday night made up for the foggy, dramatic haze that was Friday evening.

Leslie and I made plans for the bars, the same plans we make week after week. We no longer look at this as a novel idea - it's just what we do. After drinks at a small place near my apartment (a place far better suited to beginning your evening than rounding it out), we walked past the Lincoln Park brownstones and headed to our usual stretch of fratty bars. You'd think this would get old after awhile, but there are nights when I'm craving a place where I can dance my ass off with my girlfriends, ignore the guys in the striped shirts and square-toe shoes, and truly enjoy myself. Seeing as it was just Les and I, this area was exactly where we needed to be. She was without her boyfriend for the night and me, I've been without a boyfriend for over a year now.

Leslie made a few calls, one of which was to C, the gay-straight friend of her's that kissed me at the bar last weekend. (He is definitely not gay. We came to that conclusion prior to him kissing me, but I do have this strange knack for attracting guys who other people think may have gay tendencies - but that's another post entirely). C was with friends, heading to a bar across from the place we were. Another beer later and Leslie and I were making our way across the street to one of the few bars on the street where we've yet to go. It's definitely way too clubby for my taste and I doubt I will be making a return trip, but since we flirted our way out of the $5 cover and got there before the line formed, it wasn't too awful.

Music was good and loud, the crowd was noisy and 50% foreign exchange students, and we were all having a great time. I was trying to keep Leslie away from the strange and potentially creepy dudes that were hovering around her, but early in the night C and I paired off and left Leslie to fend for herself.

When the lights went on and the Tupac abruptly shut off at 3 AM, we were ready to call it a night. Unable to get in touch with her boyfriend (who lives just across the street from the bar), Leslie put herself in a cab and went home. C and I slid into the next cab, unsure of where we would go: his apartment or another bar? Both of our bladders were exploding so we chose his place (really, I think this was pretty obvious from the moment we said goodbye to Leslie).

Dirty details aside, it was a great night. The sleeping together was how I like it - somewhat romantic, somewhat just sleeping. The right mix of cuddling and sticking to your own side of the bed. I hate it when there's too much distance or too much spooning. Generally, I don't cuddle. I can only take so much before I want to spread out and not have an awkward arm under my collarbone.

We woke up groggy and looking rough, especially me and my mess of hair. He drove me home (after telling me he had a car the night before, there was no way he was going to make me take a cab) and, in our driveway, asked for my number after a lingering kiss.

Now I wait.

And the best part about all of this? I completely forgot about The Returning Ex.