My Chicago

It's not something you feel, really. It's something you know.
After a night of odd adventuring that ended with me a titch late to the airport (as usual), I did a good bit of jogging through the airport to get to my gate. Perfectly timed, I must say. I asked a cute elderly (not very elderly but close) couple what rows were boarding. "Oh dear, you must be going hiking," she said to me. I looked down. Mountain backpack complete with sleeping bag strapped in at the bottom. I, however, was wearing loafer-esque shoes, skinny jeans, jewelry and had the essence of exhaustion floating about me.
"No," I told her, "I'm just going to clean my old apartment."
My old apartment. 
I was asleep before the plane had even hit cruising altitude. I slept for a solid two hours, waking only as we were descending over the rows of houses that surround Midway.
Home.
Home is nothing and everything, it's the way the humidity rushed to fill the plane after the doors were opened. It's the way that everyone hustles around, staring quietly at the people next to them. It's the man behind me yelling at a woman who wouldn't turn down her stereo and who refused to use headphones. It's her telling him to get off the train. It's the way the other passengers look at each other and then smile as they turn their heads away. It's the small glint of fireflies in the darkening night. It's the buildings, the bricks, the smell of concrete and the silence of the oppressive heat. It's walking through the green and gray landscape and hearing no one but knowing you're surrounded. It's life. It's neighbors. It's human interactions, the smell of mens cologne as they pass in the street. The giggles of young girls who don't know what life isn't yet, pouring out of the train with their bras exposed. It's metal, metal on metal and the screech of brakes grinding together.
It's hot oppressive bars filled with warnings about fake IDs. It's the sound of throbbing music filling another space. It's the art on the walls, robots with big gleaming eyes. It's the women's restroom and it's the pictures of the other women, the solidarity and the beauty. It's the bartender closing the bar, locking the doors, cleaning and then following us into the night. It's the smell of the Oasis, familiar and grotesque. It's the icy buckets, the familiar faces, the pretenses. It's the clock ticking, tick tick tock.
And then the morning has been slept away and there's work to be done but there's too much to do. And there's not enough time and the city's calling and I'm answering and off to something else, of course.

Woman, sandwich artist, title goes here...

None of us are adults quite yet, we're stuck in that post-collegiate rut where we're still treated like children but expected to act like adults.

We were sitting, drinking Italian sodas, and discussing men. Of course.
"But he doesn't have a job," she said.
I clucked at her appreciatively. Of course we want to date men with jobs.
But then I started thinking.
I'm twenty two. I live at home, split between two homes, actually, and then a little bit in my car. I work at Subway. Does that make me undateable? Probably sort of.
On paper, absolutely.
I'd reject a twenty two year old man-boy who worked at Subway.

I'm not a girl anymore, but I'm still not a woman. Lately, it's been interesting to try and shift my identifying noun from girl to woman. But am I that yet?
I keep thinking in a couple of years I will be a woman. But what defines a woman, really?

Am I worth someone who's anything more than what I am? Do I hurt the reputation of the people I associate with based solely on my current paycheck source? Hardly, but maybe a little.
Is it worse to be unemployed than to work in the worst industry ever created? (Sometimes I think to myself: It could be worse. I could be working at Forever21.)

And am I any less of what I am because of my current occupation?
Yesterday in court during jury selection I had to give my occupation. Somewhat begrudgingly, I said "sandwich artist." Silence, followed by a lot of turning heads and some smiles, possibly muffled laughter. But following that with "Bachelor's degree in communication studies" made me feel a little better. Being the forewoman definitely made me feel better. Authoritative.

Also, on a sidenote, being a traffic prosecutor must absolutely suck. It's a simple open and shut case that never should have gone to trial and some man in a badly tailored suit had to stand up and pretend like it was legitimate. The lines of questioning were uninspired, unintelligent and boring. The defandant was self-represented and even worse. My annoyance at her surpassed my annoyance at the prosecutor, but doing my civic duty wasn't about feelings (of hostility), it was about fact.

I did laugh a little during the selection process when they asked if anyone had been in that room before. I have. I flashed back to that night my senior year of high school, the night I had to go up in front of a magistrate and have my hide tanned (because the words I want to use aren't appropriate) because of that speeding ticket. The big one. I told the judge, prosecutor and defendant that "I made some decisions that necessitated my presence here." Prosecutor asked me if the police officer sitting there was the one who'd pulled me over and I replied, "I certainly hope not."
Somehow I got on the jury.

By the way, jury duty is way less exciting than I thought it would be. I don't want it to happen again. I like the law but I wish it wasn't so repetitive and dumbed down for the masses. It's not a difficult concept, really.
Either way, I'm not any less of an intelligent human being than anyone else, even though I have to wear a stupid uniform and kill my back, knees, legs, brain cells and patience to get through the day.
Here's hoping I survive the amount of disrespect I deal with on a daily basis. Blegh.