The lakefront in Chicago boasts some really beautiful sights.  Panoramic scenes of blue water, skyline views, wonderful parks and marinas, and more.

The people here can be beautiful too.  There are some people who are a joy to watch in action - they run as though they were born to do so - with swift, graceful steps and abounding energy.  Dressed in coordinating jogging outfits, these particular runners are nimble athletes, darting among lakeshore pedestrian traffic with the ease and reflexes of a cat.

I, unfortunately, am not one of these people.  If these joggers are graceful felines, then I am the equivalent of my sister's Bernese Mountain Dog, who trips over his own paws as he lumbers by, unbridled enthusiasm turning to exhaustion in a matter of seconds and resulting in him plopping to the floor, wherever he happens to be at that moment.

I begin my runs this way - enthusiastic and determined to make it more than a block.  My initial excitement takes form in the pace of a 7-minute mile, which inevitably leaves me standing still, panting, sobbing, and clutching my side before my iPod has made it through one-three minute song.

Undaunted, I begin running again - still clutching my side against the ache and simultaneously leaning away from it, trying to stretch that particular muscle - resulting in some of the worst running posture ever documented.  Coupled with the fact that I am also hunched pretty far forward (a precautionary measure, in case the urge to throw up overcomes me without warning) it's a wonder I manage to stay upright.

Next, I have to wonder about the placement of my hands and feet.  It's not something I'm aware of at the time, but here's what I do know:

1) The insides of my running shoes are constantly sprouting new holes - a product of rubbing together - which leads me to believe my feet are constantly hitting each other as they pass in the least graceful of strides.

2) Every 30-seconds or so, my ear-buds are yanked from my ears by an over-enthusiastic arm thrust.

3) I am regularly hitting myself in the face with my fists as I run, resulting in multiple knuckle-size bruises and therefore some preemptive industrial strength concealer. 

Next to be taken into consideration is the many wonderful shades of red my skin turns.  It starts a slight pink, and by the time I stop for my mid-run break at a quarter of a mile, has turned into a shade rivaled only by beets.  This, more than anything, has led to offers of water/ambulances from strangers as well as exclamations, screams and tears from children.

Finally, factor in the bikers I am constantly darting around/diving for my life from, and I've suddenly become a very real part of Frogger. 

In short, it looks like I've escaped from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory after trying some blueberry gum, have only recently regained use and questionable control of my limbs after a lifetime of idleness, morphed into the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and am now drunk and running for my life/from the law/towards the nearest McDonalds.

That said, my sister and I have decided to start training for a half-marathon.  If you're interested in seeing the spectacle, I can be found training between the hours of 5:45 and 5:48 on weeknights.  I'll be pretty easy to spot, amongst Chicago's polished runners.

This past month has been one in which I seem to be just a little too late, for just about everything.

Earlier in July, I stood in line for 3 hours to be an extra in Transformers 3.  They called the next weekend to tell me I'd gotten in, and that filming would be on Monday and Tuesday.  Luckily for them, this call came just a few hours after I'd agreed to work on Monday and Tuesday.  I'm consoling myself with little reminders that my stint in a major motion picture wouldn't have lasted long, anyway.  Though as an extra I was supposed to dress as a "Trendy Executive Type," I had every intention of going dressed as this guy, and seeing how far it got me.

Then, yesterday I drove around Lincoln Park for almost an hour looking for parking, only to watch the cars in front of me pull into all of the would-be parking spots.  Finally, already late, I decided to cut my losses and just park on the sidewalk.  I haven't been back yet to check on my car, but I've got a good feeling I'll have just missed the tow truck.

These are all minor disappointments; things i wish I could change, but nothing I'd lose sleep over.  It was last weekend, though, that I would have done just about anything to not be in the place I was, at the time I was.

I was on my way to Kansas City for my book signing, when I made the command decision that such a long drive called for a Blizzard, a Dilly Bar, an entire ice cream cake, and/or all three.  So, I pulled off at the only gas station on that remote stretch of 70, which also happened to be a Dairy Queen.

I was lingering around a rack of cards when an older woman shuffled past me.  This would have gone unnoticed by me except that she was emitting such a stench that she couldn't be ignored.  It was similar to that moment on a family road trip when you've only got two options left - open all the windows, or be gassed to death.  I had to get out of there, and immediately.

So, I turned on my heel to flee the scene, and, as seems to be par for the course in my life, landed myself in a giant pile of excrement.

This, however, was not your figurative shadoobie, like when someone asks you how you're feeling and you answer "like a pile of crap."  It was also not the significantly worse pile of dog poop, which you can never quite get out of your shoes.  

What my foot had landed in was, in fact, a large pile of human feces.  

It was part of a trail of waste that stretched from the door all the way to the bathroom.  I didn't even have to guess who it had come from.  I like to think she was leaving herself that trail, in case she couldn't find her way back out - a very crafty and resourceful old woman.  As it is, I'm pretty sure she was less crafty and resourceful, more just losing control of her muscles.

Which is something that under any other circumstance, I'd find sad, and would probably find it in me to be compassionate, perhaps even help clean her up.

That day, though, ankle deep in it, compassion was replaced with a deep desire to actually transform myself into the above creature, storm into that bathroom after her, and demand an apology - or at least a new pair of flip flops.

Instead, I spent about 45 minutes scrubbing my foot with water, soap, bleach - anything I could find - before climbing back into my car, ice cream treats forgotten.  (Not that I'd have had the appetite for them anymore, anyway.)

I'm hoping that perhaps this next month will find me a step ahead of the curve - or at least, a step ahead of the pile.   

Writing, I've come to realize, is a dangerous profession.

In many senses, you become a slave to your work.  You put yourself in precarious scenarios, just for the sake of something interesting to write about; you nearly crash your car because you just have to write down each idea that comes to you, even if it comes to you in rush hour traffic; you get so sucked into the scene you're working on that in a matter of seconds, twelve hours have passed.

It also has a tendency to mess with your social life. 

Just look at Hemingway.  Divorced several times, heavy drinker, deteriorated mentally as the years went on, suffered from eventual paranoia, and finally, shot himself with his "favorite shotgun."

And he's one of the best.

Now, to be fair, the guy had other diagnoses that made him a risk factor for suicide, but I like to maintain that in the end, it was his profession that got to him.  Writing is lonely.

Anyone can tell you that.  It demands long hours in a quiet room stressing over minor edits and punctuation changes, as well as days on end of focused reflection as you try to come up with a story worth writing.  

According to Wikipedia, loneliness has been linked with an increased risk of cancer, stroke, and cardiovascular disease.  It results in poor sleep and therefore a diminished restorative process, alcoholism, several forms of anti-social and self-destructive behavior: most notably, hostile and delinquent behavior.  It has a negative impact on learning and memory, and its disruption of rest patterns can "have a devastating effect on the ability to function in everyday life."

As I write this, I can hear Debbie Downer's theme music drifting through my head, so I'm going to move on to the point: 

No one tells you about the effect that a lonely profession has on your socialization once you do finally get out there in the real world.  In Emily Dickinson's case, the result of sequestering herself while she wrote finally manifested itself in the form of a penchant for white dresses, adamant refusal to greet guests, and a physical inability to leave her room.  In my case, I haven't gotten that far yet.  I don't own much white, no one comes to see me anyway, and I'd much rather lock myself in my kitchen.  I have, however, noticed a change in my social graces.

For example, I spend so much time with my feet up on my desk, chewing on a pen, that I've come to believe this is acceptable behavior anywhere.  At the homes of people I've just met, at local coffee shops - I catch myself with a leg casually thrown onto the table as I lean back in my chair and think out loud.  Meanwhile, I spend so much time staring intently at my computer screen, that I've come to believe it's normal to stare at anything this intently.  Therefore, someone introduces himself to me, and I turn around and fix my gaze on him like it's the apocalypse and he's the last cut of Prime Rib.  These are all behaviors that need to stop, but I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until a few weeks ago, when I boarded the 22 Clark bus.

I sat down in one of many available seats, yet when an elderly man got on the bus, he headed for the one right next to me.

Now, a well socialized Melissa would have done something to deter him from picking that particular seat - put my purse down, turned up my iPod and looked away, burped loudly.

Instead, I found myself hoping he'd sit there. And when he did, I inched closer to him.  It was right around the time I caught moving his walker so I could more easily snuggle up to him, about to put my head on his shoulder, that I realized something was terribly wrong.

I did a quick mental calculation of the last time I'd let anyone hug me.  It had been awhile.  Next I tried to figure out how long it had been since I'd seen another human, and landed on somewhere in the vicinity of 72 hours.  Suddenly I was having horrific flashbacks of the last three days - days filled with lively conversation and boisterous laughter - between me, my coffee machine, and the cast of FRIENDS, respectively.  The worst part was, I hadn't even noticed it.

So, I decided right then and there it was time to get a job - any job - that didn't require sitting at a desk for hours on end.

I'll still do that, of course - it's just now going to occur during a well-managed period of time, with a start - and end - in sight.

Three weeks later, I not only have one job lined up - but 4 - in fact, I'm wondering now when I'll ever find time to write, within this new schedule.

But, considering the apparent alternative is sitting alone in my parents attic dressed as a bride and writing poetry - or, drinking myself into paranoia, I'm fine with it.  It's too bad for the man on the bus, though.  He seemed on board with a little mid-afternoon spooning.  

I know it's not a Monday, but I'm going to write a "Manic Monday" post anyway, because thanks to the long holiday weekend it feels like a Monday.  (Something that will continue to throw off my week, and will probably leave me putting in a 10-hour work day on Saturday, wondering why no everyone else seems to be taking "Friday" off.)

Plus, I ran into a few manics worth writing about.

Here in the city I'm usually prepared for some sort of crazy daily encounter.  Yesterday as I drove down Lakeshore drive, for example, there was a man casually relieving himself on the side of the road, waving to oncoming traffic.  

Only a few feet away sat a cop who did nothing - upon further investigation I discovered that he was unaware of this mans behavior because he was sitting behind the wheel simultaneously talking on his cell and reading a comic book.  

There you have it, the city's finest, working hard to serve and protect us.

As I write this, I'm watching a woman in shiny snake-skin leggings standing on the corner with her arm raised, yet she's politely declining every cab that stops for her.  Hers may be a profession you don't usually get to see in action at 11 am...I feel lucky to be witnessing it.  I also feel like if I watch long enough, I'll see another of Chicago's upstanding officers pull up to reprimand her.  At least I hope that's what happens - if he never shows up - or worse, if he does show up but picks her up for any reason other than an arrest - I will lose all faith in where my tax dollars are going, and promptly leave Illinois.

Anyway my point is that I'm used to 'crazy' living downtown. Make a trip up to the North Shore, however, and 'crazy' becomes a little more of a surprise.  Winnetka is a suburb full of multi-million dollar homes, well manicured lawns and shiny Mercede's SUV's.  It is not a place for those who have lost their source of income, their sense of hygiene, or their minds.

So, when my aunt and I passed a nice looking middle-aged woman on the sidewalk as we made our way up to the Glencoe Starbucks, I smiled - fully expecting a casual comment on the weather.  Instead, she put her hand out to stop us and said:

"Tell me, is there anything more ludicrous than the American point of view?" 

As she said this she shook her head, although she was disappointed in us, and I had to stop and think for a minute - completely at a loss for how to respond to that.

"In regards to what?" my aunt asked her, as I spun in a circle looking for anything at all that could pass for ludicrous around here, besides the woman posing the question.

"You know," she said.  "Tunnel vision."  With that, she picked up a small dog from the yard we were in front of and walked away.   I've been keeping my eyes open for "missing dog" posters ever since, ready and waiting with freshly sharpened colored pencils, to provide a full color sketch of the suspect if asked.   

Soon after this encounter, I headed for Wisconsin, where I made a stop at the post office.  As I was filling out my forms, a man came in and barged past me.  He had a beard that left me wondering if he'd parked some sort Biblical vehicle outside - but was dressed in head to toe leather covered with Harley Davidson insignia.  All in all, I got the impression that he wasn't the kind of man you invite out for tea, crumpets, and pleasant conversation.

Suddenly I was startled by what I thought was a gunshot - but turned out to simply be this gentleman slamming a package down on the counter.

"This got delivered to my house.  I didn't order it, I don't want it, so you can send it back."

If there was a place in that sentence for "Aint" to be used, he would have found it.  I could hear it in the way he pronounced didn't and don't like "daidn't" and "dain't."

"Ok," the woman behind the counter tried to be nice.  "I'm just going to need you to sign-"

"I ain't signin' nothin'," he said.

There it was.

He left just as quickly as he'd come in, and I watched him sail his ark away behind the rest of the Hells Angels.

I guess if these encounters taught me anything, it's that you can't avoid crazy, whether you live in the heart downtown or in small town America. 

They also taught me that I may be able to get away with public urination or daylight prostitution, depending which officer is patrolling the area.