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“Hey are you home from work yet?”
I had a long day in the office Friday. I had promised myself I would be doing no more than one night of drinking during the weekend, but those plans went by the wayside when my sister, who is just two years my senior, showed up outside my apartment with a half-gallon of Tito’s and a fifth of 1800. Apparently she decided half-way through her work day on Friday to make the pilgrimage from Detroit to Chicago, and although I was tired, I welcomed her with open arms. Visits from family members come few and far between, as my parents are both in their last few years of working and they’d rather go on vacations without me than deal with the hustle and bustle of Chicago. Coupled with the fact that I no longer have a car (I ditched it a month after moving), let’s just say I don’t get to Michigan as much as I’d like to.
Let me begin by saying that I loathe hosting. It stresses me out to no end. Every hour of the day essentially needs to be pre-planned, from dinner Friday night, to daytime activities on Saturday that have to flawlessly transition into another dinner and then something to do that night. Thank God my sister gave up all forms of social media for Lent because if I had to take her to the SkyDeck at the Willis Tower or to the fucking Bean I would have lost my goddamn mind. That shit is for sheep. But to her credit, she’s also incredibly low maintenance, so showing up unannounced was not a big deal.
Rather than lay in bed and watch the newest House of Cards season (which is laughably bad), I sent out some feeler texts and decided the best thing to do would be to throw a little pre-game at my apartment. My building is getting torn down in a month, so I’m pretty reckless these days when it comes to having people over. Let me put it this way — if I saw you and a group of your friends walking down the street laughing, and I happened to be on that same street with my crew, you’re probably getting an invite to my apartment if I decide to throw a party. My roof has become a graveyard for Bud Lights and bottles of Andre, and the inside of my apartment is starting to feel less like a place to live and more like a brothel.
I have little to no memory of Friday night past 11:00 p.m. There were probably twenty people drinking and gallivanting around my apartment, and we got after it with the tequila. I was also intermittently drinking Lagunitas “Little Sumpin’ Sumpin’” which, unbeknownst to me, has a 7.5% ABV. For those keeping score at home, drinking one of those is like drinking 2 or 3 Bud Lights. I was on my fourth or fifth Sumpin when we hopped into three Uber XL’s that caravanned their way to a bar that was packing them in like sardines. Fifteen minutes in and we had successfully carved out enough room for our rather large group to dance and mingle with friends and strangers. The rest of the night, I’m sorry to say, was surprisingly uneventful considering the amount of alcohol that I drank. No drunk phone calls or texts were made to Allison, Maria, or Phoebe. My phone remained untouched all night as I caught up with my little sister who I hadn’t seen since Christmas. Saturday was more of the same. We got brunch, watched Michigan State win another basketball game as they steamroll their way into the NCAA Tournament, and then we went curling. Yes, like the Olympic sport curling. I took a weekend off from “The Chase,” and I’ve got to be honest here: it felt great.
For the first weekend in a while where I wasn’t worried about some floozy texting me back or the repercussions I’d face for doing something drunk that I’d regret later on. Sometimes you need to take your foot off of the gas. Whether it’s with family, friends, or both, it’s good to unplug and forget about ex-girlfriends, flings, and what-could-have-beens. At the risk of jinxing a city that is notorious for strange weather, I will not say that spring is here in Chicago. I’m half expecting it to snow tomorrow, even though the temperature is hovering around 55 degrees at the moment. But I will say that it’s warm out. It no longer hurts to walk around outside. And that means I can’t afford to be taking any more weekends off. March Madness is about to be in full swing, along with St. Patrick’s Day and a smorgasbord of street events, parties, and outdoor activities, all of which involve ingesting large amounts of alcohol. This, of course, is a natural pivot point for girls all over the city to shed their Lulu leggings for sundresses. So although my weekend was PG as fuck, there will be no shortage of chasing in the coming months.
I survived the bleakness and drudgery of another winter in the Midwest. I’ve hooked up with some beautiful girls and even gained a loyal, albeit small following that read about my exploits week in and week out. None of these girls have panned out, of course, but I’ve got a good feeling about my chances with the weather turning and a head of hair that, since mid-October, has essentially been in a prison of its own despair. I’ve got serious lettuce right now, but it’s too cold outside and it’s been buried underneath winter hats or baseball caps. It hasn’t gotten to blow elegantly on a patio in the warm breeze in months. Time to let the tiger out of the cage. The calendar is turning, and I for one could not be more excited. Stay tuned. .
Image via John Naffziger