It should have been a pretty typical afternoon. Liz and I agreed to go and "be productive" at an awesome coffee shop in Logan Square. [New Wave Coffee: a place you all should frequent because a) the coffee is AMAZING, b) they actually play music you would want to listen to, c) vegan cupcakes and "unfriend me" sourheart cookies, d) free wifi, e) bottomless cups of coffee and about a dozen more things I could continue to rave about] We packed up our things and headed to the 66 bus stop at Chicago and LaSalle.
It should have occurred to us that when the man at the bus stop tried to make small talk with us about the efficiency of Chicagoans compared to New Yorkers that we were in for something other than ordinary. Alas, we rode the bus discussing our futures and our presents, smiling as we glanced out the window to discuss creative names of bars and the interesting choice of graffiti we passed.
Walking down Milwaukee Avenue, on our way to a delectable cup of coffee, [My drink, sweetly entitled the "Hail Mary," is another reason to frequent New Wave Coffee: a chai latte with two perfectly crafted shots of Metropolis espresso mixed in] the 56 bus passes us, and like a scene from a movie, splashes dirty water up Liz's side. We laugh and assess the damage, continuing our trek to the coffee mecca.
After scoring an unfortunately wobbly table in the packed, albeit large cafe, Liz and I sat down to power through some homework with our coffees topped with perfect microfoam. As I geek out over editing my Excel attendance sheet, I glance over at one of the many bearded men in the coffee shop and notice his odd posture. Perched on the edge of his seat, his legs were perfectly crossed Indian style so that it appeared he was floating. Intrigued, I informed Liz that I was fairly sure I could not hold the same pose. As is to be expected after statements such as that, I attempted to fold myself into a pretzel like this other man. My right foot tucked beneath my left thigh, I began to lift my left leg telling Liz, "my pants are too tight to try this." At that precise moment, I grabbed my boot and tugged, determined to prove I could mimic this man's position. And with that statement of irony, I hear a small tear, realizing that my pants are indeed too tight for such a position, and am now left with a hole in my favorite pair of jeans.
Embarrassing? Of Course. But hilarious nonetheless.
Shortly thereafter, Liz and I pack up our things and head back to the bus stop, not without of course, my slipping on the ice, proving that despite my cross-legged inflexibility, I am still able to do the splits.
Only moments later, standing on Milwaukee Avenue in Wicker Park, a white conversion van, the vehicle of child molesters, drives by Liz and I, proclaiming out the window, "I love your haircut!" The van does a U-turn in the middle of a busy road, drives back by us and this time both the driver and the passenger give us a thumbs up. Liz and I turn to one another and decide, this is the perfect ending to a perfectly off afternoon.
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