I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 2: Streets of Chicago)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Who made the best partner for Lennie Briscoe on Law & Order -- Chris Noth, Ben Bratt, or Jesse L. Martin? Chime in after today's post! - Erin

(Continued from yesterday's essay.)

Friday, July 15, 2005

8:47 a.m.

The big day has arrived. Frankly, it's a miracle I'm not still in bed. I love to sleep in. Being a teacher put a stop to that for the past nine months, but lately the ZZZZZZs have been making an impressive comeback. I am the Ultimate Sleeping Champion again. Nevertheless, today I crawled out of bed with my husband -- we still haven't bought a bed frame or box springs to go with our mattress, so "crawled" is actually pretty accurate -- and pretended I had to get up like the rest of the worker bees. I am not one of them, not until I head back to Austin and the first graders of Travis Heights Elementary in a month. But if I don't wake up and go to Starbucks like the rest of the bees, I'll spend the whole day watching Law & Order marathons on TNT and USA. The day will be shot (inasmuch as watching Law & Order counts as wasting your day, and I will happily take the con side of that debate at another time). But after two days of Detectives Lennie Briscoe and Ed Green, or Lennie and Mr. Big, or Lennie and that guy who used to date Julia Roberts and who looks pretty hot fake-reading a newspaper -- after spending the past two days watching those guys solve crime on our roommate's freakishly large TV -- I think it's best if I cut the cord and get out into the real world.

I mean, why watch pretend stuff on television when I can go out into the real world and pretend myself? Exactly. Let's roll!

9:13 a.m.

I've packed my backpack with everything I need for a fine day of fakery -- medium red delicious brand apple, Vanilla Slimfast, Ipod, cell phone, highlighter, pen, laptop, composition notebook, pocket-size spiral notebook, one unread novel, one unread nonfiction book about writing, and of course, the recently read novel I'll be discussing with teenagers in a few hours. Over coffee with my husband, I told him proudly that I was going to a book discussion at the downtown library. He sounded impressed and jealous. I did not mention the mandatory age range of the discussion group (14-19) or that it was listed under the library's summer activities for young adults. I object. I am a young adult. 27 is a young adult! A 14-year-old is a child. (AUTHOR'S PREEMPTIVE NOTE TO HER TWO YOUNGEST SISTERS, AGES 11 AND 14: Not you, silly!

9:45 a.m.

I kiss the hubby goodbye and stroll out onto the streets of downtown Chicago, belly full of two ludicrously named Starbucks items: the grande nonfat non-foam vanilla latte and the Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake. The stupid terms for Starbucks coffee sizes used to bother me. Then my stomach fell in love with that six-word pastry and I really got pissed. I mean, should I have to spit out all those needless adjectives before I've even had my daily jolt of caffeine? I've taken to just pointing at the cake and grunting "gimme the cinnamon business," but the, ahem, baristas never get it. It's like they're robots only programmed to understand Starbucks language (or like most Americans trying to get by in a non-English-speaking country). I end up having to say the whole long name anyway. Argh.

I am so peeved by all this, I am extra amused to see a certain unmistakable local dude breeze through the 'bucks as I exit. My husband and I call this dude the Corporate Saboteur. Our best guess is that he's homeless or a crack addict or both. The problems of homelessness, poverty, and drug addiction are more prevalent in Chicago than anywhere else I've ever lived, and your heart will break daily if you let it. From what I can tell, the best any of us can do is volunteer in our communities (or a needier one than yours) and be thankful for what we have. If anyone has a better suggestion, please, I'm all ears.

But all that said, the Corporate Saboteur is pretty funny. Today's sighting was a classic example. Looking quite spaced out but proud of himself, he strolled through the side door of our Starbucks, which is located on the first floor of a glass building that houses the company's corporate office and a bunch of law and accounting firms. The Corporate Saboteur bought nothing but strutted purposefully across the coffee shop, past dozens of Wall Street Journal readers. He left behind the almost visible stench of a thousand dumpsters, of clothes positively baked in human matter. It was an indescribable, impenetrable wall of funk -- accompanied by a sly, little grin -- that clearly, loudly declared: "I'll have an iced venti, nonfat, non-foam, half-caf, hazelnut almond cup of FUCK YOU, YUPPIES! TO GO, PLEASE!!" I was tempted to run back in and give the guy a high five (even though I know -- since it took 11 very pretentious words for me to order a breakfast that was essentially "coffee [comma] donut" -- I am one of those yuppies now).

10:15 a.m.

After the grande existential crisis that comes as a free side order with every cup of Starbucks coffee, I stop at my favorite bookstore, on Washington and Franklin, where everything is 50% off this month for some reason (they swear they are not going out of business but just need to pay the rent). I'm there at least every third day and I never make it out without a new book, usually several. Wednesday's purchase was I Can't Tell You, the book that started this whole "faux-teen on a mission" mess. Books can be very powerful. Here I am about to risk serious embarrassment and possible mistaken identity (for a pedophile) simply because I want to discuss Hillary Frank's book with others. Is it my fault the only others reading this book are teenagers? (AUTHOR'S NOTE: At this point I barely care about the book anymore. I just like the idea of going undercover in a nerdy public forum from which I am barred by ageism.)

I made a couple of purchases at the book store -- rationalizing that I'd actually finished one book since my last visit and was thus deserving of a reward. At the checkout counter, the clerk wrestled with a rogue rubber band tangled in the cash register cord. My 27-year-old brain went ding! I was going to need a couple of those if I was going to wear pigtails in a few hours. (Always thinking, me!) I asked the clerk girl, who kinda knows me by now (if for no other reason than I spilled water on the counter a couple visits ago): "Could I have that rubber band?" She cheerily turned it over to me, proving one of my mantras (You Can't Get What You Want If You Don't Ask).

Fishing around in my backpack as I hit the sidewalk again, I was sure I'd brought another ponytail holder from home. But alas: keys, quarters, transit card, chapstick -- no rubber band. One was definitely not enough. With a plain old ponytail, I could be any lazy-haired woman walking around town, probably in sweatpants. But with pigtails, it would be a whole new ballgame. They can shave a decade off my appearance. (Just ask the guy who carded me at an R-rated movie not that long ago!) But was I really going to have to casually scan the sidewalks between the bookstore and the library, looking for something to put in my hair? Ewwwww. Gross. But accurate. A spy does what a spy must.

(To be continued . . . On Monday, find out if I actually end up with a street rubber band in my hair and what happens when I actually reach the 10-story behemoth that is Chicago's Harold Washington Library. Party time!)