I really wanted to love Chicago, I really did.  I always had dreams about living in a big city that never sleeps and being able to access all the art museums and listen to live music.  I wanted to be able to immerse myself in the culture I had longed to be a part of for years.  Coming from a town that shut down at seven o’clock, I longed to be able to stay out past the sun and finding a grocery store with more than one brand of cheese. 

I knew I needed to save more money than I thought I needed and probably needed to upgrade my closet.  Clothes that made up my wardrobe of small-town life probably wouldn’t go over so well when I really wanted to be taken seriously and seen as a sophisticated professional.  After years of planning, saving and reorganizing, I was finally getting on the plane with my carryon so I could find a place to live in Chicago.   

The butterflies in my stomach intensified as the plane lifted off.  Was I making the right decision?  Was I too ambitious in getting rid of most of my possessions and foregoing a new lease on my apartment?  I could only hope I was making the right decision. 

I knew the moment I got off the plane that it was all a mistake.  Maybe I should have visited before making this big life decision.  Chicago was too damn cold for anything. 


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