“There just wasn’t anything for me there,” he said. “And I wanted to do things with my life that I couldn’t do there, like study philosophy.”
“But anything you could ever want to do, you can do there!” (which, of course, is what I’ve been telling myself…)
“Well, I was 24 and couldn’t have found a good job or anything. It’s different for you — you could go there now and get work in ten seconds and have a good life there.”
(This from the man who, when I announced I’d received another job offer in NYC, asked when I was moving…)
I still don’t understand why he ever left. If I’d found NYC when I was 24 (or, more accurately, when I was 22, before I had W.), I never would have come home. I’m ready to move there now, but there is no way I’m ready to leave behind my children or, probably more important, my friends. It’s taken me a long time to foster the friendships and connections I have in Chicago, and it’s only the past year or two that I’ve finally gotten to a place in my life where I feel loved and supported from a million different directions. But the pull of that city! I’ve never felt anything quite like it, and the more I go the more I want to go. The next ten years can’t pass soon enough — and I’m beginning to imagine what it will be like to spend my 40s in New York after spending my 30s in Chicago. Quite satisfying, I suppose.