In the space of two weeks, I went from considering myself a Minnesota "life-r" to living out of two suitcases in California.
I was offered my dream job at my dream company, and a week after accepting it, a moving truck pulled up to my sister's house, where I was living at the time. Two burly men emerged and proceeded to pack all of my belongings ("That Darth Vader helmet voice changer doesn't belong to me... honest! No... just pack it and I'll... uh... return it to its proper owner... in California...") except for three pre-packed, rickety suitcases. This trio of blue luggage contained all of the belongings I would require for the next month. All the rest of my possessions were going into storage while I lived in temporary corporate housing and searched for a permanent apartment.
Soon I found myself deplaning at the San Jose Airport. I had a small, wheely carry-on bag and my little dog in a carrier slung across my shoulders. Being that I was embarking to live in California without knowing a soul, I decided that that day would be the first day of my True Adulthood. To symbolize this, I had traveled wearing a cute outfit of capris, a tank top, and rather unwieldy high heels. As an aside, it should be noted that I haven't since traveled in anything other than oversized sweatpants, mens' undershirts, and Crocs.
I wobbled through the airport on my OhSoCute stilettos, gasping and sweating. Having a 15 pound animal hanging around your neck in a carrier that requires being completely level and steady at all times is exhausting. Coupling this with a suitcase and a fashion statement, I don't believe I achieved the level of chic that I had intended.
I finally arrived at the baggage carousel, dog, high heels, and dignity all intact (but barely). After the trademarked airport wait time (you know, not long enough to go get a drink, too long to continue to hold your belongings) the moving ramp started to spit out bags and packages.
My sister gave me my luggage set before I spent a semester in Budapest. The blue linen suitcases were very worn and dirty after five months of traveling with me in Eastern Europe. They were old friends, and I wasn't inclined to replace them, regardless of their aesthetics. The smaller of the two suitcases was jettisoned ungently from the mysterious land behind the swinging plastic flaps of the carousel. My dog, my outfit, my carry-on, my stilettos, and I leapt forward and wrestled the overstuffed blue monstrosity from the moving belt. I (somewhat belatedly) acquired a luggage trolly and stowed my accoutrements upon it. I looked up just in time to see my second bag emerge from the cavernous opening.
In my mind's eye, I see the following events unfolding in slow motion. The large blue suitcase tumbled onto the belt. As it made one final twist and came to rest, the zipper gave way. The top sprang open. Released suddenly from their compact captivity, my belongings launched every which way. Underwear went flying! My hair diffuser skittered down the belt. A copy of Gone With the Wind landed on top of the carousel, perched like a trophy.
Discord and chaos ensued as everyone in the very crowded San Jose terminal watched me desperately scoop piles of dirty underwear and toiletries off of the belt. Some helpful individuals tried to assist; one elderly man gingerly handed me a handful of runaway tampons. Most were content to watch with amusement and horror. Restrained by my dog, my shoes, my already-stowed luggage, and my pride, I could only but watch as all the contents of the suitcase moved out of arms length and made their slow, showcasing tour around the entire terminal. Helplessly, I waited until they methodically made their way back to me on the moving belt. Finally I was able to the last of my unmentionables into the gaping suitcase.
The zipper was shot. I had to get to the rental car area with all of my belongings. Longingly remembering my resolution to finally begin life as an adult, I put the torn-up suitcase on the trolly. I placed the smaller (intact) suitcase on top of it. I placed the carry-on on top of that. Then I climbed aboard myself, straddling the mound of luggage, depending on my weight to hold all items in place. Holding a bewildered, ugly dog, riding a trolley of luggage with brassieres leaking out of every side, clutching a high heel under each armpit (and thusly barefoot) I slowly scootched to a taxi cab.
Surprisingly, the rest of the move went smoothly. But as this was supposed to be the day that began my adult life, it comes as no surprise to me that I still find myself closing down bars at 2am and walking around work in my bunny slippers.
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