Sometimes I think deep down, I’m a really lazy person. Which is funny, because I pride myself on not being lazy. I work out, hard. I get up on time every morning, I get to work when I should. At work, I do my job. I try. I don’t take the fact that I have a job for granted. On weekends, I never (and I mean never) sit around the sofa and watch TV. I’m up, I’m out, I’m doing shit. I’m an active person. Active = not lazy.

That’s the big picture. It’s the little things that I’m lazy about. I try to brush twice a day, but sometimes at night, it doesn’t happen. I know I should wear sunglasses when I’m outside or driving, but sometimes I’m too lazy to look for them in my car or dig through my purse to find them (which actually is not OK considering macular degeneration is real). I lose money from online orders that I need to return but don’t because I can’t seem to drag my ass to the post office, which is a two-minute drive from work.

Habits are powerful. They’re also only habits, controlled by neural pathways in the brain. New neural pathways mean new habits, and maybe the little things won’t be sacrificed to my laziness anymore.

“I’ll be happy when.” This little phrase has introduced many sentences in my life. On one hand, I like having things to look forward to. Small getaways. Holidays. Special events. Birthdays. Things like that. Anticipating joy gives me a simple rush, just enough to propel me until the big moment arrives.

On the other hand, this leaves me in a constant state of want and in turn, discontent. (Turns out the Buddha was right.)

Usually, the Event does leave me a trace happier. It’s not a total wash. But at what point do I stop moving the goalpost and allow the Event to just be an unexpected bonus?

I have this bad habit of assuming people with big fancy titles and big fancy offices and big fancy salaries are somehow better than me.

Then, the other day, I did a mind trick. A woman with a big fancy title and a big fancy office and likely a big fancy salary was giving a presentation. As she spoke, I placed her in a Starbucks, my Starbucks. She’s ahead of me in line and takes forever to order. Can’t make up her mind and also has to double-check her texts to see what her person wants. I get impatient and sigh and crowd her personal space. When she’s finally done, she looks at me and lets out a squeaky “Sorry! I’m so sorry!” while hastily zipping her Michael Kors purse.

That’s when I realize she’s no better than me. We’re both human. We try to dress well. We get up, we get through the day, we sleep.

I felt a little bit better.

Sometimes I wonder if people at work – my work, your work, any work – do or don’t do things because they know other people are near. Like wash their hands after they go to the bathroom. Or not scrub their plates and silverware, caked with dried food an hour after they’ve finished lunch. Or feeling free to pass gas in the hallway or stairway when they think no one else is around. Picking their nose. Scratching an itch in places no one talks about at work. Digging out earwax and smelling it, just to see what it smells like.

I don’t know. We’re animals, and we have bodies that require maintenance. I just wonder how much of that maintenance happens only when we feel safe, like we won’t be judged by those we see and make nice with every day.

Two months ago I moved from San Francisco to Chicago. This confuses many of my new fellow Midwestern residents.

“Why would anyone leave for California for this place?” 

“Have you been through a winter here?”

“That’s funny. I’m trying to do the reverse.”

These were among the reactions over the past eight weeks when I say where I’m from. Some people stay quiet, but their disdain oozes through raised eyebrows and shaking heads. It’s been everyone, too, from my new coworkers to the clerk at the liquor store when I show my California ID.

This move was a major life decision. I spent a little over 10 years in the Bay Area. I was born and raised in Denver, and upon college graduation, I took a job as a reporter for a small local paper in Gilroy, about 80 miles south of San Francisco. I had no idea how long I’d be there. I think my original plan was to move back to Denver at some point.

But you know how it is. You meet people, you plant roots. Maybe have a kid. You get to know the bars, cafes, things to do on a rainy day. Months become years and after awhile, I glanced behind me and there stood a decade.

San Francisco is a magical city full of nooks and crannies and alleyways and corners where many random things happen. It has colorful people and beautiful stories, such wonderful, endless stories. That city is one giant story.

But it didn’t want me. Or that’s how I felt. I couldn’t afford it, for one thing. It also just got on my nerves. Not really the weather so much, a string of foggy 60-degree days, but the claustrophobia that’s a result of what’s actually smart urban planning.

In San Francisco, you walk. Because you can. Markets, movie theaters, flowers shops, bookstores are almost always a short stroll away. The city has done a lot over the past few years to encourage residents to give up their cars. They’ve created dedicated bike lanes on several major thoroughfares. They’ve allowed cafes to take over curbside parking to build terraces for dining al fresco.

So there’s a lot of people, all the time, competing for space. Space in elementary schools, space in the lanes at the supermarket, space to park their cars. What parking there is costs money. Everything costs money. Forget about rent. Wherever you live, I’m sure you know that rent in San Francisco is, to quote today’s youth culture, “beyond.” It’s comical to me now, because I’ve moved on. And in that sense, moving on has been a luxury.

I now rent a single-family for $500 more a month than what I paid in San Francisco for a “garden level” (basement) apartment. The house is double the square the footage. It has a big front yard and back yard. It has two sets of stairs. It has a basement. It has three bedrooms, not two. It has two bathrooms, not one. It has a covered garage, not just street parking. Although it has plenty of that too. It’s in a safe, quiet neighborhood brimming with mature trees and paths to ride a bike.

Parking at work is free. Parking at the grocery store is free. The roads are wider, their potholes have been re-paved. The local community centers, libraries and public schools are excellent, beautiful and modern. I’m 20 minutes from a cosmopolitan city that’s a rich matrix of history, evident in the aged brick, the stone, the world-class architecture that towers over you at every turn. The food. The drinks. The music. And yes, the deep-dish pizza.

There’s winter. I know. I know. It gets cold, and cold as fuck. I get it. “No, you don’t,” they all say. They inform me that I might be from Colorado, but that state’s cold season is milder. “You’ll see,” I’ve been warned. “Just wait.”

So I’m waiting. And in the meantime, I’m enjoying a spectacular summer. A summer in which I can swim in an outdoor pool at 6:30pm on a Monday and it’s 85 degrees. I eat strawberry popsicles and drink cold spiked lemonade and leave the windows and doors open all day every weekend. I wear shorts, flip-flops. I don’t have to bring a sweater if I’ll be out past 8pm. The sun heats the days, the pavement, the tar. On some days, I brush hair off my eyebrows and it sticks to my forehead. This is summer in Chicago.

And then it will be fall. The leaves will change, and gloriously. Slowly sunsets will begin earlier. People will come home earlier. They buy some hot cocoa, maybe a new set of mugs.

So, here I am. I live in the Midwest. Sometimes I can’t quite believe it. Sometimes, when the sky is dark and the thunder loud, I wonder if I’m a West Coast girl at heart. But I have my reasons for being here now, however long “now” will last, and those reasons belong to me.

I’ve learned several things during the process of moving and adjusting to a new place. One is this: If someone talks with you about their major life decision, greet them with understanding. It’s OK – it’s good – to ask questions, to want to know more. But don’t answer with obvious disapproval. Be curious. Be empathetic. Or simply just be nice. Because by talking with you about something so big, they’re showing you a piece of who they are.