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.