I should have known better than to look at the two young men hitching babies in the courtyard.

Walking home from spin class--the Chicago air unseasonably warm for this time of November--i was wearing my cream-colored hoodie and black track pants and my hair was damp from sweat pulled half back in a pony tail snugged too tight. Down Ashland Avenue, there are communities of condominiums filled with fulfilled dreams of families, practical and stably churning with the kind of success that makes me wonder what it feels like to be successful. I'm walking down the street, staring beyond fire hydrants and flower vendors and then making eye contact with these two ordinarily successful men who are standing behind the gated communities, half cradling one- and two-year-old girls, each of them wearing the same Hanes white t-shirts and easy pants that remind me of a smooth ride. I, in fact, am having one of those weeks that is not exactely a smooth ride, so the notion of both "smooth" and "ride" entertained me, and the men cradling their perfect, darling girls looked too perfect to meet my eyes. But the fact is, they did. And as I walked passed them and notice their smooth, easy looks, they meet the uneasiness of my gaze and for a moment I wondered what each of them thought as I strolled through the night. Maybe nothing. But there was a notion that I had interupted a bonding moment between two men with perfect wives up stairs, fanning over photography books and schedules that involve coffee, lunch dates and shopping down Michigan Avenue. Somewhere, I knew, there were plastic tricycles and electronic toys and all the materialistic joy that made their easy looks sing. Perhaps, for a moment, I was something more. In the midst of wondering the who's and how's of their situation, for a moment I wanted them to wonder that about me--"Go on," I wanted to say. Make me feel like I am the success and you are the ones staring out at me from your gated confines of perfection. Is this really too much?

I don't consider anyone's situation enviable. That's not to say I am not a jealous person, because, sadly, it is a vice that has hurt me, my relationships--jesus, my eyes are green, doesn't that say enough? But in a situation where seemingly perfect pictures find your eyes, and the street lights are igniting the city in calm, white blush, there is that enviable instinct to wonder how the other side lives. There is a notion of wanting to explore such stablity even when such prospects are seemingly out of reach. Tonight, I didn't get any step closer.

The workers were stringing up the holiday wreathes around the doorway of the Tribune tower today. Walking down Michigan Avenue against the blustery whip of Novmber wind, I started thinking about the cheery glean of the holidays, and gingerbread cookies and the way Christmas lights look layered with fresh snow. Then I found myself wondering why suddenly I was feeling very sad walking alone on that sidewalk. I didn't have an answer at that moment, but coming home to dark, empty apartment, I was just beginning to see.

Enter picture one: Last night I attended a press opening for a lofted Chicago nightclub. The place was buzzing with pin striped suits, Collins glasses, women in red banded tube tops who carryed trays of crab cakes arranged like puzzle pieces. I met a stockbroker with a crooked nose who drank Seven and Sevens and told me that smelled good. I met a coat check girl that my companion Joel told me wore too much make-up and smiled a lot. I met senior editors for Playboy, national photographers who laughed about the rates and a man waiting to enter a stall in the women's bathroom. Above me, lights swirled in the shape of stars and the drinks slid down like a cool, easy ride (eventhough I was enjoying myself neither part of the evening was either easy or cool, except at the very beginning, before the room heated up with money and fragrence). For a moment, while leaning against the bar, I took a step outside myself and looked at the scores of pretty people--the men dressed in black and the women who adored them--and I caught a glimpse of my reflection in mirror. I checked it twice and wondered what I was doing here, and told myself I belonged, and for a moment, tossing my hair, I believed that. (Until of course, I realized I had lost an earring. Beautiful people don't lose earrings! They are mechanic and perfect and never use "um" when they speak).

Amidst the crush of exclusivity, I resorted to leaving at midnight to find deep house solace in The Note, located just up the street from the new club du jour. I knew people were going to be there, and I thought maybe coming down to my element would jolt me back into the comfortablity of my own skin--not to say I had been uncomfortable, but I wanted a snapshot of myself back for one moment to ensure my grounding was good. Upon entering, these kind of backhanded smiles abounded--the kind of smiles that make you realize someone in the corner of the room is not really glad to see you, not glad to hear your voice, cop a hug, and quite possibly annoyed by your very sight. I was surrounded by friends, old lovers and strangers I didn't know but looked like me--I was sure I would be welcomed home. But the dark under current hit my heart harder than I had felt in months and suddenly I stopped and asked myself, "What am I doing, really, Jenn?" Such muddled thoughts are not fueled by paranoia but the fact that as I grow older I have to question it more. Such whirls of social visiblity hit me hard every night and leaving me wondering how will be there when lights go on. I already know the answer to that--I will be the only standing, because every morning when I wake up, my question is answered.

I didn't end my night how I planned. I smoked too many cigarettes and feel asleep on the couch disatisfied, like the kind of taste a bad ham sandwich leaves behind. There is this notion of shell-shock, of working through the duality that defines a life social choas and solitary confinement. Perhaps then, it was appropriate I felt sad, walking alone down MIchigan Avenue today. No one was looking. It was nothing unordinary.