Where’s the plumber?

It’s 9:00pm on Saturday night – one of the first I have had free in a while – and I am sitting on my couch waiting for the plumber to give me the go ahead to pee, shower and refill my Brita. I am pondering the irony in this situation and decided I’m quite certain it’s a sort of practical joke the universe is playing on me.

Since moving to Chicago eight months ago I have noticed an increase in my stress levels, TV watching and sitting in on more Saturday nights than ever before. I attribute this mostly to exhaustion from a job that can easily be split into a two-person position, living one train stop too far from where anything is “hopping” or “happening” and the overall fact that this city is gray and cold in the winter.

Tonight, however, I am ready for adventure. Today was 75 degrees. I am feeling lively – up for a beer (or six) – and I cannot shower.

Life is funny this way. Either people want me to go out and I don’t want to, I want to go out and people don’t want to, or my shower starts spewing up toilet paper and other pipe-clogged nastiness and I can’t go out no matter who wants me to. It’s at least satisfying to know I still have some oomph left in me, when a summer ale with friends sounds better than sitting around watching DVR-ed Oprah episodes. I may have just kicked my mid-20s into high gear, but I can still party like it’s 1999.

Yes, this is some sort of ironic universal twist on my young life. If I don’t make it out, at least I’ll know the toilet will go down easy in the morning.