My Weekend as a 27 Year Old in Chicago
If you do more than 3 things on the weekend it's legally considered work.
I am trying to feel better. This is not easy right now, nor ever, really, in human history. To feel joy is most often a fluke, addictive but rare.
When I found out my ex-situationship (a phrase that has shaved years off of my life) was dating someone after torturing me for 6 months, I felt lower than I ever have—and I often feel low. This came after my ex-boyfriend ghosted me by moving to England. It’s been a loveless few years.
My therapist cautioned me against dating right now, but I can’t afford to meet with her anymore, so I can ignore everything she said previously. I reactivated my Hinge profile last week and was immediately inundated with likes. I don’t say this to brag, rather, this shows how bleak it is out there. I parsed through the profiles looking for anyone who seemed interesting. One man responded to my photo and said, “I hope you like guys who listen to the Grateful Dead!” I do not.
Soon, I had matched with two different men named Jesus, which I thought was funny, given that it was Easter week. They were both very different, and I agreed to go on two different dates on Friday and Saturday.
Commuting to work five days a week leaves me with little energy. I often use my weekends to run errands and do chores, or simply sit at a cafe and read. I was reluctant to give up my precious time, but I am a lover at heart, and I yearn to be near people. On Friday, after work, I had pre-purchased a ticket to see Sinners at my local theater, and my Friday date agreed to meet me for a drink after the movie. I liked Sinners while watching it, but upon reflection, I don’t think it was that good. It was a very sexy movie, however, so it felt fun to see it and then go out into the world and walk to a bar with other sexy people.
“Friday” was very cute—he had a good nose. We talked about movies and music for an hour at the bar, but the DJ was very annoying, so we walked to a wine bar I like called Outside Voices. Almost no one was in the wine bar, and they were playing Aaliyah. I was a little tipsy, and the quietness was nice. At times, it felt like he was interrogating me, but given that most people show disinterest in others, this felt pleasant enough. Across the street from Outside Voices is Scofflaw, so when we found out the wine bar was closing, we waited for the rain to stop and walked there. We sat at the bar and held hands as the line cook came around and gave everyone freshly-baked cookies. Apparently, they do this every night, but it felt magical in the moment. Maybe this is why I kissed him outside at the stoplight, or why we went back to my apartment and had sex.
After everything, it was around 2:30, and given that my average bedtime is 11, I felt so energized and alive to be up well into the night. We parted, and I slept in. I awoke to a cool breeze from the open windows and the softness of my sheets. For a moment, I felt happy. I had little impulse to do anything else but sleep, which is rare for me. I didn’t really have anything else to do until later that day, when I was to meet “Saturday” at a cafe.
“Friday” had a date that morning, too, as I would come to find out on Sunday, when he texted me to say that the date had gone really well, and he wanted to put his “energy” into that person going forward. I wanted to hate him for having sex with me and then going on a date the next day, but that’s technically what I was doing, too. This was the way of the dating world, right? To move through others on your path toward the “right one.”
After making some homemade pickles in my kitchen, I jumped on the train and went to meet “Saturday” at the cafe. “Saturday” was very sweet and also very smart. He was a Marxist, employed as a professor at a local university. I had fun talking to him about everything that had been on my mind: capitalism, Gaza, prison abolition, and policing. The last time I tried to talk about prison abolition on a date, he ended it after an hour, claiming that he had “stuff to work on” at home. It was pleasurable to discuss books and writing, too, as so often no one outside of my writer friends understands what it is that I actually do when I say that I am a writer. On my Hinge profile, I have that my goal is to publish my memoir (a feat that is almost completed), and so many men will comment, “Have you lived a life worth writing about?” I don’t know, but perhaps you should get to know me, and then you may find your answer.
I think my problem is that I am constantly searching for myself in the other, when maybe I should be seeking the yin to my yang. I fear those who are different from me—those project managers who just want to incuriously watch Friends reruns every night—yet, this has also been part of my recent existential crisis. I fear that I am more of an arts manager than an artist. It’s a made-up problem for sure, but the dichotomy has felt like a knife in my side. It exists because my ex-situationship is a manchild who’s on his third book, while I am an adult with a serious job, struggling to write about my own life. He never congratulated me for publishing a chapbook, and though it may sound dramatic, I don’t think I can ever forgive him for stealing some of my joy.
The whole thing reminds me of a film I watched recently called Crossing Delancey, where a manic pixie dream girl falls for the cocky, successful writer while spurring the advances of the cute, humble pickle salesman. In the end, it’s revealed that the writer is just using her, and the pickle salesman actually loves her. A classic romcom, but one that hit a little too close to home. Sometimes the man we dream of loving only loves himself. So, we move on.
After Saturday’s date, I was exhausted from so much human interaction, but I didn’t want to go home alone. I texted my friend and sort of neighbor, Kevin, and asked if he wanted to get a drink. Typically, Kevin is busy, but he was free and we met at the bar under my apartment, where the waitress always remembers us. This familiarity felt good and comfortable. I felt like I could finally relax as I told Kevin about my weekend and work before that. I even got him to talk about himself and his work, which he stoically refuses to do sometimes.
My therapist was, unfortunately, right. I don’t need to be dating right now. I need to put energy into myself and my friendships. It felt good to talk to people again—to be intimate with them—but it also felt stressful and a little exhausting. I don’t want to feel lonely right now, but I think it’s best if I’m alone for a little longer.
This week, my best friend from college, Sophie, is coming to Chicago, and I’m meeting her for a drink. Then, I’m grabbing pizza with a friend on Thursday, and on Sunday, I’m going to a film premiere with a friend who writes about films for a living. I’m excited, and this feels like a better use of my time than dating right now. I have a lot of books to read, movies to watch, and friends to hang out with.