August 3, 2018, Gyeonggi-do Park, Seoul

We are living in a romcom. You are a quirky albeit handsome inventor.

I’m literally the girl next door, our Chicago apartments joined by a shared balcony overlooking Lake Shore Drive.

It’s our first international trip together.

We are sitting on a park bench. I’m admiring the view. The sky in Seoul is painted citrine, bathing the cityscape in a futuristic amber light. The buildings are stacked like Lego towers, a sharp contrast to delicate reeds of natural grass, which dance in the wind at our feet.

This is my first time outside of the U.S. and I am awed by the beauty of this foreign paradise. I’m also jet-lagged and beyond excited to be here with you.

But I feel alone. We aren’t in the moment together.

You have a singular focus on your latest invention, a thin mesh glove that detects and measures fluctuations in magnetic fields.

At least, that’s what I think the glove does. I’ve heard you practice your pitch a hundred times. Magnetic fields are everywhere, an invisible fabric that spreads out around organic and inorganic objects. Your hypothesis is that these shifting magnetic fields impact the weather.

In layman’s terms, magnets can make crazy shit happen.

You need a significant volume of data points to validate your research, so you wear the glove everywhere. At least that’s what you tell me. It sends a constant feed of electromagnetic information to your laptop, creating a mashup of EKG blips and spirograph line drawings on your screensaver.

August 4, 2018, COEX Convention & Exhibition Center, Seoul

It’s opening day at the wearable technology conference, the biggest in the world. You’ve been prepping for this event for months and your prototype is finally ready to demo. I am here to support you as you court investors to scale a proof-of-concept launch.

You are one of the few emerging magnetometeorology experts in the Midwest. Maybe in the world. It’s a newer, unproven discipline — which means that you need to fight for credibility and dollars.

The conference organizers put your booth in the Emerging Creator’s Hall, not the Main Exhibition ballroom. Evidently being “in the nursery” at the other end of the convention center means that tech investors won’t take you seriously. You count the steps leading from the Main Exhibition area to your booth. 892 steps. Almost a half-mile. You pace the dark and narrow hallway between the Main Exhibition ballroom and your booth. I can’t tell if you are angry or resigned. Maybe both?

“This research will change everything,” you mutter to no one in particular. I am not sure if you are trying to convince me or yourself.

I bought in early. I’m your first and only investor.

March 23, 2019, Navy Pier, Chicago

In the seven months since our trip to Seoul, you have become increasingly withdrawn. You are obsessed with wearing the metal glove 24/7. It has become the sole focus of your life. The device is so sensitive that you unplug all appliances in your apartment. Any hint of electricity interferes with your raw readings.

To safeguard the integrity of your data, you keep your laptop stationed at my apartment. It’s mildly annoying but it gives you an excuse to visit me daily.

Aside from monitoring the daily data points, you rarely leave your apartment. I miss you.

I convince you to take an impromptu walk with me along the lake. We do our best to dodge tourists on Segways and electric bicycles. You only want to talk about work.

You are upset that you can’t find a backer. No one is taking your research seriously.

You sound desperate. I’m worried about you. Worried about us. Our romcom has become a drama.

May 30, 2019, My bedroom, Chicago

You shake me awake in the middle of the night; I feel the cool metal glove scrape against my shoulder. I’m disoriented and confused. What are you doing here?

It’s been a few days since I’ve seen you. I know that you sneak into my apartment at night to check your laptop. You raid my fridge and leave dirty plates in my sink. It’s a little creepy, but I figure this is part of dating a visionary.

I wonder if you think of me as your girlfriend or if I’m just the apartment-adjacent person who supplies your dinner and keeps your laptop charged.

“Sunny. It’s coming. The big one. We gotta go, now.”

Your eyes are wild, crazy mixed with a bit of fear and excitement. I’ve never seen you this animated.

“It’s a seiche. There hasn’t been a recorded one in this area since the 1950s. We don’t have a lot of time.”

I have no idea what you are talking about.

You are giddy as you explain what is happening. “It’s like a tsunami but caused by a change in air pressure. Lake Michigan is about to be hit with 10-foot waves. We need to move your car.”

This is the most you have talked to me in over three weeks.

I get dressed and grab my phone, your laptop, and my car keys. A few minutes later we are on the street, trying to remember where I parked my car. It is 2:45 a.m. on a Tuesday and the city is sleeping. All seems calm on the darkened streets.

I wonder if this is the day when you officially lose the bubble. Go insane. Transition from crazy genius to plain ol’ crazy.

“Where are we going ?” I’m beginning to worry about your plan, as well as your sanity.

You tell me to drive five blocks west of the lake. You are so adamant, that I follow your direction.

We head down Irving Park, away from the lakefront, passing rows of slumbering apartments and storefronts. After 15 minutes, we find an open diner near the expressway.

“This is far enough. Let’s park and eat.”

Before we enter the restaurant, you take a few minutes to send out an email blast to NOAA, the Chicago Office of Emergency Management, and a few local news stations. You are either going to be crazily famous or famously crazy. I am still not sure which. At this point, it doesn’t even matter.

May 30, 2019, George’s Diner, Chicago

The waitress turns up the TV in the corner as reports of 10-foot waves flooding the lakefront begin to pour in. The images look like scenes from a Hollywood disaster movie. Cars are pushed off the street and into the apartment buildings that line Lake Shore Drive. Buildings near the lakefront are ominously dark, having lost power due to flooding. We can see our building in the news footage — the first-floor windows are shattered.

You look deep into my eyes and a quiet calm settles over your face.

My car is safely parked blocks away from the devastation. We are sharing a strawberry milkshake and chili fries in a quiet diner booth on the edge of the city. We are comfortable, dry, and secure.

For the first time in months, you peel off the glove, so you can grab my hands across the table. We talk about nothing important. And we laugh at the funny curse words carved into the faux leather diner seats.

We are in the moment together.

This morning there was Carl Sandburg fog. Harry Potter fog. John Carpenter’s The Fog.

I’m catching an early train. Which means I’m tired, hungry, and out-of-sorts. It also means that this train is packed with the eager earlybirds. I’m sharing a seat with a nondescript student? Intern?

I’m going to speak as part of a panel event and I need to get in early and get set up.

So yeah, there’s a deathly fog rolling in– but what do I care? I’m on a giant commuter train and I’m not gonna worry about a thing. I need to focus on having smart stuff to say during the call.

So the early train turns out to be an express train. And it feels like I’m riding a bullet into the city. I’m beginning to think I should make the effort to catch this early express train more often.

Then it happens.

The train comes to a grinding halt right outside the entrance to Union Station. The conductor broadcast through the speakers that there is some sort of delay to due to “issues with the signaling system.”

There’s this collective sigh and I can see eyes rolling in every direction. No worms for these early birds this morning…

15 minutes tick by.

Some of us are bothered. But some of us are enjoying a few extra minutes of streaming media or chapters in our ebooks. We’re on the early train– what do we care if we are 15 minutes late?

30 minutes tick by.

The vibe begins to turn. The train is stuffy and there’s this vague threat hanging over our heads– that maybe this is a serious delay. Not a “no time for Dunkin coffee,” but rather “gonna miss that mandatory huddle” situation.

I proactively text the panel organizer to let them know I most likely will miss the meeting. The train is far too crowded to try to dial in and present. It’s disappointing but entirely out of my control.

45 minutes tick by.

I’ve taken the initiative to inventory my backpack. In additon to my laptop, I have 3 portion-controlled packs of almonds, 2 KIND bars (carmel almond + sea salt, natch), a handful of tampons, lip balm, 2 charging cables, 3 pens, 1 highlighter, and a pad of paper. I also have 2 extra portable batteries that will work with my phone or laptop.

I open one of the packages of almonds and I don’t offer any to the passenger next to me. First, there are like only 14 almonds in a 100-calorie pack. Second, if things go south, I’m going to need all the energy those 100 calories provide.

60 minutes delayed.

I watch folks squirming on the train, frantically checking their phones for updates. I’m calm.

Like many of my GenX brethren, I was raised on a diet of 80s action movies and prepped to survive The Day After. Being stuck on a train for a few hours is nothing compared to having to fight the Soviets with my teenage guerilla friends or outwitting terrorists at Nakatomi Plaza.

I channel my movie-BFFs, Rambo and Ripley, and decide that I’ll not only be a survivor here– I’m going to be a thriver.

This is my moment.

Everything I tallied in my backpack can be fashioned into a weapon, a bartering tool, or a source of power. Literally. (Did I mention I have 2 power bricks in my bag?)

Those tampons– heck they can be tiny missiles. Those charging cables– they can be fashioned into a Mortal Kombat-style rope dart. If necessary, my pens can become small sabers.

While I’m living my best 80s movie montage moment, I notice that my fellow passengers are moving from anger to resignation. The accountant and lawyer types are chit-chatting and exchanging business cards. In the seat next to me, an IT professional is frantically typing on their laptop. A train delay won’t stop them from deploying code today. The students/ interns look bored. Clearly, they are realizing they should’ve charged their devices before they left home this morning.

I look around the train and lock eyes with my people, the consultants. We are ready. Ready to establish the new society that will become our life on this train. We’ve all seen Snowpiercer– we know how things will play out.

75 minutes delayed.

The conductor broadcasts that we are now clear to enter the station. There’s a collective sigh of relief and some passengers clap. But like a snarky clap.

I zip my backpack and make a mental note to add a water bottle and more snacks.

Heck, I might even have enough room for a few flares… you never know when they might come in handy.

You take one corporate-funded personality assessment at a team building event 15 years ago, and it becomes your whole life.

Oh, this hasn’t happened to you? Just me then?

Sometime in the early 2000s, I learned a critical piece of information about myself. A label that would succinctly explain the complexity of my personality in a single word.

And suddenly it all made sense. The world and my place in it.

I wasn’t ridiculous.

I wasn’t ludicrous.

I wasn’t crazy.

I was a Campaigner.

For those familiar with Myers-Briggs, I am an ENFP-A (Extraverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Prospecting). According to 16personalities.com, ENFPs “tend to embrace big ideas and actions that reflect their sense of hope and goodwill toward others. Their vibrant energy can flow in many directions.”

(For those interested, you can find out what you are here. Did I mention it’s free? And it only takes a few minutes. Hey, knowing your results might just change your life? I mean, there’s only upside here.)

If it isn’t readily obvious, in my case, that “energy” flows in the direction of me emphatically recommending incredible albeit random, shit.

Shit people need to know.

Shit I’m utterly compelled to share.

I mean, I’m a campaigner and incredibly passionate about all the things.

If I am into it, odds are you know about it because I haven’t stopped talking about it.

Amplifying it.

All. The. Time.

In the queue to grab lunch.

On my daily commute.

During my bikini wax (…it’s already awkward enough, why not strike up a conversation about the popularity and usefulness of fanny packs? I am really loving mine. So handy, and they are making a comeback.).

And the best part — it’s the most delightfully random assortment of topics.

Grazing boards.

Kobi Yamada’s What Do You Do With an Idea. (If every person read this book, the world would be a better place.)

Old-school bra fittings.

Indie-tronica playlists on Spotify.

Monster smut. (You know you’re curious… and I’ve got your back here.)

The 1980s. Like everything about the ’80s. The music, movies, the fashion, and the vibe.

Trader Joe’s hauls.

Stern Brunch Daddies. (IYKYK and if you don’t know, let’s grab coffee.)

K-beauty skin care routines.

ACOTAR.

Press-on nails. (They’re chic, durable, cheap, and easy to apply.)

Scrapbooking.

Japanese gel pens. (Have you ever tried Sarasa .05 in blue/black ink? #lifechanger)

Panang curry. (Rochelle, you were totally right, and this is my exclusive Thai restaurant order.)

It’s a compulsion; I can’t help myself. These are things you NEED to know about.

I find something and make it my whole personality. Like the sloth wearable blanket that I got in this year’s Secret Santa exchange.

I literally haven’t taken it off.

And I think everyone needs to have one too.

Like how did we live before we could cuddle up in a sloth blanket that makes us look like a sloth? It’s so soft, cute, and cuddly — you really need one. Maybe two?

People who love me — they find my endless campaigning exhausting (Exhibit A: My husband) or funny (Exhibit B: my sister). And even knowing that not everyone wants to hear about my recent obsessions, I continue to be compelled to share.

Campaigning about music has become a friction point in my household. My hubs and daughter have taken a hard stance that they don’t like to share their music with other people, because it’s their music and if they share it, it won’t be special.

Like the goodness is finite and by spreading it around, the item loses its indie creed, its coolness, its exclusivity.

Not for the campaigner! I take an opposing position here. I want everyone to know about the best music in the world.

I want to hear my music everywhere.

On the radio.

As hold music on a call with my lousy internet provider.

On commercials for things like cars, feminine hygiene, or hard seltzers.

As the soundtrack in my local grocery store, so I can live out my fantasy of appearing in a dope-ass music video as I shimmy-strut down the aisles, filling my Midwestern-mom-cart with Pop-Tarts, frozen meatloaf, and string cheese.

I have great taste. I like good stuff.

Retract that — I have amazing taste. I like superlative stuff.

Look, you’ll be a better person if you take my advice. Buy my favs. Listen to my music. Drink my turmeric chai tea… I am not shitting you.

Trust me.

Mama knows best.

Look, you don’t need to be attractive to be vain.

Some of the most self-obsessed people I know IRL are crazy-looking AF.

And, yeah, like knows like.

I mean, I’m not meme-worthy crazy looking…but I am not what you might call a “traditional beauty.”

Yet, I’m one of the vainest battle-worn-bitches I know.

And I’m an extrovert, so I know a lot of people.

Proof points:

· If I can’t pull off an epic contour, I might seriously consider calling in sick to work that day.

· I spent $200 on a jar of Crème de La Mer. My body is a hot wreck — but heck if I don’t look a decade younger from the neck up. I’ve got that smooth axolotl skin.

· There’s a picture in my iPhoto that is slowly aging, because I’m a low-rent Dorian Gray.

· I got a razor pixie cut because it strategically hides my gray hair.

· Every morning at my makeup vanity is A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.

(It’s a reference to famous painting, click here for context… I’ll wait…seriously, this shit will make a heckofalot more sense if we’re all on the same page. And congrats, you’re learning something. Oh, and while we’re talking, you caught that reference to Dorian Gray, right? You can thank me later when you impress your pub trivia team.)

I’m trying to look young, okay — younger. And my vanity plays out in how I do my damnedest to control how I’m perceived.

Each morning:

·I snatch my cheekbones.

·Fill my brows to hide evidence of what I did to them in the 1990s.

·Rim my waterline with both brown and black eyeliner to make my eyes pop; streak concealer at the corners of my eyes to combat the heavy lidded droop that comes with age.

· Overline my lips in Pillow Talk to make them appear to be naturally full. (Because I’m too broke and too beleaguered to inject my body with fillers. And that shit most definitely isn’t covered under insurance.)

My relationship with the mirror has shifted over time.

In my 20s and 30s, putting on a face was like donning Valkyrie armor. It gave me the professional polish that (I thought) made people conclude, “Heck, she’s rocking bronzer and highlighter. She must be a true business lady. No way she could be a little girl in a cheap pantsuit — an imposter.”

Which, in retrospect, is pretty messed up.

By the way, thanks to ’80s and ’90s pop culture for making that random thought even seem plausible.

In my 40s, dolling up for work was about my need to validate my authority. I was proud of my slow and tenacious climb into middle-management roles. I was experiencing what I affectionately remember calling my “boss babe era.” A time when I was all about the title on my business card. And sure as shit, I was gonna look the part. Coffee was for closers, and Directors layered on lip liner. Disagree? Fite me.

Now in my 50s, makeup is my defense against the dark arts. And by dark arts, I mean career and cultural relevancy. I worry if I show up with droopy eyes, a washed-out complexion, and thin lips, someone is going to ask me about my AARP membership (which I do have) or my retirement plans (which I don’t have).

I spend a lot of time fixing my face in the mirror because it’s a Gen X tactic — a subterfuge. We pride ourselves on being shapeshifting time travelers.

On our best days, we can pass as Millennials… (on our worst days, we get lumped in with the Boomers). We seem hip — we listen to the same music you do — but we also know things, like what life was like before the internet. We remember the good things (like Saturday morning cartoons and mixtapes) and the scary things (like The Day After or the Challenger explosion).

And we are getting old, but not that old.

And we are fighting to hold on to our jobs, our identities, and our youth.

So yeah, I’m vain because I need to be.

But I’m fancy AF because I like to be.

Let me start with a little context.

If you know me IRL, I’m a smiler.

It’s a compulsion, maybe a tic? But odds are if you see me out and about in public, I’ll most likely be sporting a resting smiling face.

My agreeable smile, combined with the fact that I’ve got a textbook “bartender’s face” — make it seem like I’m open and interested in talking to you. I remind people of their quirky albeit sweet college roommate or fun aunt, who always carried candy in her purse. So people like to approach me.

All the time.

Like they know me.

Or like they need to talk to me.

I’m the kind-eyed person that you’ll stop if you need directions.

The co-worker with the inviting, cushion-soft bosomy hugs that envelope you in homespun comfort.

Somebody’s mom in the bathroom, who seems decent enough to loan you a tampon and listen to your relationship drama.

That’s me.

Or at least how I look.

Whether or not I actually want to talk to you, give you directions, hug you against my bosom, or loan you a tampon while you unload your problems on me never really comes into play.

Now you know a little something about me.

So- this morning I treated myself to a carry-out breakfast from the café in my office building. I’m quietly holding my fancy breakfast box and riding the escalator to the lobby when I inadvertently lock eyes with a woman in a building security blazer, standing at the bottom of the escalator.

The security guard holds my gaze while I’m riding down, and shouts up at me — what’s in the box?

And I shrug and reply- my breakfast.

And she’s like- whatch’a get.

And I’m like a breakfast sando.

And I get off the escalator and try to speedwalk across the giant lobby to my elevator bank and she’s keeping pace, walking next to me and she touches my arm to stop me.

And she’s like- what’s on your sandwich?

And now I’m feeling like I have to defend my breakfast selection.

So I’m like- bacon, egg, cheese and (I pause for some unknown reason)-avocado.

And she winks at me and touches my shoulder. Like we are best buds.

And suddenly she’s wondering out loud- what kinda bread it’s on?

Like this is some sort of quiz show.

I respond, a bagel (natch).

She full on stops me, shakes her head like she’s going to give me the business, and looks me straight in the eye and tells me- get the croissant — it’s better.

Like I’ve made a critical breakfast error.

Meanwhile I’m darting looks over to my elevator bank. I check my watch and send the universal social cue of “I need to get back to my desk.”

But lady security guard isn’t done with me yet.

Then she’s like- what’s your name, bagel with avocado? I haven’t seen you around here.

And without warning, she grabs my badge, which I wear it on a lanyard round my neck. And she runs her fingers over my name and squints.

And like it’s the most normal thing in the world to have someone grab at the plastic badge dangling off my chest. We keep talking.

I’m like- I’m Johannah. Just started coming into the office.

She says- ok Johannah, Miss avocado bagel- I can tell. My name is Tuesday (she points to a gold security badge — and sure as hell it says “Tuesday” stamped in bold black letters on her shield)- I’ve been here 16 years. Never saw you before.

And we stood in silence for a beat (which felt like a long damn time), both of us smiling. My nervous smile pinned down by her confident grin.

And then with a swift head nod, she tipped an invisible hat to me and told me — you have a real nice breakfast now and don’t forget the croissants next time. Trust me.

I thanked her for the insider info on the breakfast sandwich and scurried over to badge in to my elevator bank.

And as I sat in my cube, gnawing at my now cold breakfast sandwich, I couldn’t help but think that maybe Tuesday was right.

I really should’ve gotten the croissant.

It’s a shit time when you find yourself, at the ripe age of 51, running to the drugstore at 9:35pm, in the rain. To buy a pregnancy test. For yourself.

You are making this trip because you haven’t slept in 5 days.

You are making this trip because logic and reason have failed you.

You are making this trip because either your body has stopped bleeding or you’re pregnant.

At 51.

But in this moment. Sitting in your car at a Walgreens parking lot, you realize that you’ll soon know. That a $20 plastic wand will be the validation you need to sleep tonight.

Clearly, you’re not pregnant. Not filled with another life. Not ripe and ready. Not possessing a lush and juicy vessel of possibilities.

You are old. Spent. Tired. Dried up.

You are done. At least long-done with this phase of your life.

And though your cycles have been as dependable as the commuter train you take to work each day; the world has declared you a “woman of a certain age.” An earned honor you aren’t ready to claim yet.

Your hands press against the roundness of your belly and in the briefest of moments, you let yourself believe. Imagine. Dream. Dwell in this ridiculous possibility.

What if?

A week, a month, a year from now. You’ll forget about this moment — this moment when you were both thrilled and scared. Excited and anxious. Expectant and resigned. This moment when you were pregnant/ not pregnant.

Three minutes.

One pink line.

And the wave of relief.

And you know you’ll sleep tonight.

And another wave of relief washes against you four days later, when a red drop signals the start of a well-worn pattern.

And maybe at 51, you’re not quite done yet.