Dear Chicago

(As published on Chicago's Craigslist in the Missed Connections section):

Dear Chicago,

On this, the eve of the 6th anniversary of our parting, I have a few things I'd like to say to you. I know I haven't been back to visit you as often as I should, but I have a reason. Trust me on this, okay? You'll understand once I explain.

Chicago, I fucking miss you like I have never missed anything in my life. I miss you so much that the one time I came to visit you a few years ago, I cried almost every minute because all my visit did was remind me that I am no longer yours. Like an old lover who can no longer face her ex, it broke my heart to see you so alive, so happy, so bubbling, so...not my home anymore.

This is not to say that I'm not happy where I am now. I am, of sorts. I've met with marginal success, have been able to live within my means a little better, and have furthered my education in preparation for the day I come back to you. The best part of where I am now, really, is that I've reconnected with dear old friends and the tiny bit of family that I have left - something you weren't able to offer me. That wasn't your fault. Making friends within your area was a little difficult sometimes, but again, you just weren't stocked with people from my past, so it wasn't your fault. Toward the end there I was getting pretty bitter and unhealthy about life (you really had started to throw some shit my way), and you just didn't have the support network I needed. Everything was falling onto the shoulders of the two last friends I had there, and I didn't want to lose them, too, so...I left.

Since the day I pulled the U-haul out of the alley behind my old apartment, I have missed you. My move, while somber at the core, held a lot of promise at the time and has come with many perks. I have a lot more space where I am now, and things like parking and rush hour are cakewalks compared to what I dealt with when I lived in you. I can register my car for a fraction of what it costs in Illinois, and I don't have to carry my groceries up three flights of stairs. In fact, I don't have to carry them far at all; I park 6 feet from my front door. Off the street. I have a house with a garden and a yard and my own washer and dryer in the basement, a basement which is providing a home for all the crap I've managed to accumulate (I haven't moved since I left you, and you remember what I was like, always hoarding, purging, and moving every couple of years, so you can imagine just how much shit I've piled up by now). Heck, I even have an attached studio space! I have more room than I know what to do with! And therein, Chicago, lies the problem.

You contained me. You kept me in check. Nothing could get so out of hand when I lived in those little apartments. My weight stayed down thanks to those sojourns to the grocery store and back, from those metabolism-raising trips to Bubbleland, from those "fuck this traffic" bike rides to work. I couldn't ever accumulate too much crap because there was only so much room, even with a storage locker in the basement. Now, I'm like a goldfish placed in a huge pond. I just keep expanding to fill the space.

But that's the least of my worries. Because you see, while my girth and my useless collection of possessions and ephemera keep growing, my love life shrinks. Well, maybe not shrink so much as never existed here in the first place. Why? It could be because I'm fat and miserable, sure, but I'm pretty convinced, Chicago, it's because where I live now is not filled with progressive, forward-thinking, educated single males like you are. In fact it's devoid of them. See, whereas I could spin around on any number of your crowded streets with my eyes closed and run an 80% chance of pointing to someone who fits the 30-45, child-free, educated demographic, it's a completely different story here. Here, I run about a .8 chance, if that. More than likely the odds are in my favor that I'm going to wind up pointing to (a) a bar filled with nubile and entitled co-eds, (b) a sedan containing a married father of three who's on his way to pick up his mistress, (c) a single dad schlepping off to his second-shift warehouse job to make the child support payment, or (d) a homeless guy. On the rare chance I do find one that's single, he drops me like a hot potato when he figures out that I'm old meat who's never gonna oblige him with loin-fruit. Or he's a flake with commitment issues who's still single because he lived at home until he was 30 and has yet to find his replacement mom. More than that, where I live now sports a mind-blowing shortage of men with any kind of taste in food, clothing, or music. My perfect date is an afternoon wandering a museum followed by a Thai dinner and - if things go well - a nightcap over some original live music. Not here. Now, please don't get me wrong, Chicago, I live in an area that boasts a great arts and music scene - it's just impossible to find a man who enjoys these things as much as I do. Single dudes here are all about pepperoni, cheap beer, football, and cover bands. And I, unfortunately, have become all about my cats.

*sigh*

But I digress.

I miss your giant burritos at 4:00 a.m. I miss flying directly to anywhere in the world. I miss not having to drive if I don't feel like it. I miss the elote cart and his wonky little horn, the jingle of the Good Humor truck, and the United Nations buffet of dinner choices, especially Ethiopian food. I miss taking the bus and not feeling like a degenerate. I miss Green River and Swedish Flops and bean pies. I miss real baseball. I miss old, authentic, re-mantled Irish pubs. I miss walking down the street and having people actually be walking with me. I miss drivers who know how to navigate buses and cyclists at the same time. I miss the Trib crossword. I miss broasted chicken. I miss the rattle of the El. I miss the smell of Lake Michigan as it comes to life in early summer. I miss hailing a cab with the flick of a wrist. I miss the beach. I miss the skyline and how it rose up all important-looking yet friendly and welcoming from the flatness around it. It never failed, in all nine years I lived there, to take my breath away.

There is much I don't miss, of course, like the traffic, and the insanely cold winters and equally brutal summers, and the crime, and the expense, and the parking. But these are sacrifices I willingly made, hassles I put up with in order to be a proud denizen of Chicagoland.

But sometimes I wonder if I miss you, or miss the life I wanted to have with you. Toward the end there, it was bad, remember? I couldn't find a job anywhere within 50 miles of you. I had no more friends. Even if I did, I didn't have any money to do anything with them. Things got ugly. I hit bottom. I had to go.

Do I regret moving? Sometimes. When I look into the faces of the people who are happy to have me here where I am now, who are glad to spend time with me, who understand me and cheer me on and support me as only my friends can...no. I do not regret it. But when I think about what could have been with you...yes. I do.

So I'll tell you what, Chicago. I'll come back. I actually never doubted in my mind that would be back, it's just taking longer than I thought it would. Things will be different next time. I'll be older, wiser, and a little more relaxed. Hopefully I'll be a little wealthier, too, because my days of living in the ghetto are behind me, I'm afraid. I'll have to downsize and learn how to live on less, but that's okay. My only request is that you have a sunny apartment and a smart guy who likes Ethiopian food in my near future.

All my love,
Me