Friday, January 4, 2008

My time in Chicago. . .

. . . had been lived in semi-squalor. In four years of residing at the same apartment, I’ve owned (an average of) two drinking glasses. If you ate dinner in my home, the top half was most likely left uncooked, because there wasn’t a lid for my sole pan. I didn’t mind. In fact, I’ve enjoyed living with the understanding that if ever I returned home to find that my entry was barred by the Sheriff, I would only need to replace my DVD’s and a few books.

Much of what I’ve done over these last years has been with consideration to the Sheriff.

This Christmas, an ex-girlfriend’s family gifted me two sets of drinking glasses, utensils, and cookware. The utensils sit in a polished chrome canister. The cookware hangs from the newly installed rack. The drinking glasses are arranged in order of color and height. Before I go to sleep, I stand in front of the opened cupboards to revel in them all.

It took drinking glasses to make me understand that I live here. This is my home. Even worse, I’m an adult. Regardless of how many ironic purchases I make. The security of knowing that I can entertain guests in excess of three, with dignity, has now become more gratifying than watching a movie on a flat panel.

This morning I invested in a mutual fund with ING.

Even Hercules was undone by a sweater.

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