the ocean

I try to resist the urge to complain about the weather, because I recognize it is a topic that pretty much flags for the universe that you have nothing of value to say. We've all been in those elevator conversations at work where we have to restrain ourselves from acts of self harm while Bob from accounting catalogues the various types of humidity he has known. And yet the past several weeks in Chicago have made me realize that the weather has the capacity to literally make me a crazy person. If that is not worth at least a mention, well, I don't know what is. (Taylor Swift?)

You see, the sun has been an infrequent visitor around here. And I've noticed that on the days where it is overcast, I have a tendency to spiral into madness over the smallest things. Train delayed by five minutes? That seems like it's probably the end of the world. Restaurant forgets to hold the cucumbers in my salad? Try to choke back the tears. But if it's actually a nice day, go ahead and kick me in the crotch and steal my wallet; everything's coming up roses! It's like I'm drunk, but on sunshine. I even start randomly calling friends to catch up with them, as though I were three long islands in.

I tried getting one of those artificial sunshine lamps, which does help, but isn't a cure all. Plus, did I mention it's also been cold? This Wednesday I was sitting in my office wearing four layers of clothing, including my coat, and hoping my hands would stay warm enough to type. Thursday I actually came home so I could work from under my covers. (Which is totally legitimate.) I did ask the office of the building to turn my heat up, but that was a bit too much of a Bob Cratchit situation (great band name) for me and so I just gave up. 

I'm not moving to Florida. That's not an answer to anything. Unless the question is "Where can I still find casual racism?" 

So, we may be buying a house. By which I mean we put in an offer, it was accepted, and we're just waiting on the inspection to confirm it's not falling into a sinkhole or something. But barring that, or the bank deciding I'm a sex criminal for some reason, we're moving in June. Only a block, because we're insane, but we're moving. 

The place is really nice and we're excited about it. We looked at a lot of places that all seemed to have something wrong with them: kitchen cabinets that seem to have been used for an axe throwing contest, a small windowless guest room that seemed designed for filming proof of life videos, a portal to hell in the powder room. But everything about this place seems solid. It's more than we want to pay, but so is everything. And because it's so close to our current place, nothing else about our lives will change -- same grocery store, same gym, even the same parking zone. (And you know those neighborhood permits are a motherfucker.) Just more space! 

I'm a little more emotional about leaving our current place behind than I thought I would be, since I'm basically an unfeeling monster. But we had a lot of good times here, like the time I had a pay telephone installed to teach the kids a lesson about fiscal responsibility, though that may have been a Brady Bunch episode. No, we had Christmases here and Fakesgivings and the afterparty for our marriage party, as well as a whole lot of COVID. So the point is, this is a great place and someone should buy it like immediately after we move so I'm not carrying two mortgages for months on end.

Anyway, changes are coming! I can't wait to complain about them here. 

It's tomorrow, actually. There has been no strange new threat to lock the city down and I'm slated to perform tomorrow night. I still sort of feel like an electrical main might go down or something and it won't happen, but that's probably just my natural paranoia.