This post should be read in the ironic and self-mocking tone in which I wrote it. I am fully aware of how self-pitying and how pathetic I sound, and that is the point.<\/i><\/p>\n
This morning has already been a comedy of errors, although I admit that I don’t think I laughed once at my compounding predicaments.<\/p>\n
Here are the facts:<\/p>\n
\n— Yesterday as I got onto the bus going home, the strap to my over-the-shoulder bag snapped off (no doubt because of the weight of the entire Ring trilogy within). There are two drawstrings which keep the purse closed, and so I used those, in the interim, to drape over my wrist. But I have to get a new bag.<\/p>\n
— I have 3 large paper bags filled with presents to bring home to the family. Some of the presents are rather large and of an awkward size.<\/p>\n
— My duffel bag, which I used to pack my clothes in, does not have an over-the-shoulder strap either … It has two small straps, which can be grasped together in one hand, but the attachable long strap, to go over the shoulder for more convenience, was lost long ago.<\/p>\n
So – needless to say – trying to get my act together this morning for my commute was a chore. I am here at work now – in the empty office – waiting for my bus, which leaves at 2.<\/p>\n
I have not planned this well. I had to haul all of my strap-less booty from my apartment to my office … hang out here … and then haul it all again down the 6 blocks to Port Authority. But 6 blocks can be an eternity when you have FAR TOO MANY BAGS, TWO OF WHICH HAVE NO SHOULDER STRAPS.<\/p>\n
Finally, I thought I had it all handled.<\/p>\n
I would put my purse over my wrist and slide it halfway up my arm. I would put my duffel bag straps over the same wrist (which nearly ripped my arm out of its socket). Then I would carry one of my large bags of presents with my feeble stretched-out hand. The other two bags of presents (heavy, mind you) I would manage to clasp in the other hand.<\/p>\n
Once I got myself into this configuration, I became about 6 feet wide.<\/p>\n
But no matter.<\/p>\n
I struggled out of the door to my apartment. I was too wide to get through with all the bags, so I had to take them all off, open the door, move all the bags out into the hallway, step outside, close the door, lock the door, and then rearrange myself (purse, duffel, one bag of presents on left-hand side, 2 paper bags of presents on right-hand side.) Then I had to struggle down the 7 steps into the mailbox area, where there is a door leading into the foyer. Again, because I had no hands free, I had to take all the bags off, open the door, slide each bag through, step through myself, and then re-arrange all the bags up and down my torso. Unfortunately, I was still only in the foyer by this point … and there was one more door leading to the outside world. So again: off with all the bags, open the door, slide each bag out, step out, put all bags on again.<\/p>\n
By this point, I was drenched in sweat. I had on a nice velvety top which was a mistake. It had become a sweatshirt.<\/p>\n
Let us not even mention the HEAVINESS of the bags. I thought I was going to die.<\/p>\n
I took 10 steps across my little concrete front yard, stepped outside the gate, and already had to put all the bags down for a little breather.<\/p>\n
It was then that it really hit me: How the hell am I going to pull this off?<\/p>\n
It seemed impossible.<\/p>\n
My shoulders ached. My arms felt elongated. Like an El Greco. My nicely arranged hair was a complete mess. The day was beautiful, it was 8:30 am, but it seemed as though it would take an act of God to get me the hell across the river, to my job, and then down to Port Authority.<\/p>\n
Taking a deep breath, I thought of Bilbo. I thought of all that he endured. I thought about how he stepped outside his comfort zone, and went through things that were very unpleasant. I will get through this. I will somehow (SOMEHOW) climb up the steps onto the bus – I had no idea how I would, though, due to my increased width. I would somehow (SOMEHOW) store all of my presents all about the bus – which, unfortunatley, I knew would be jam-packed with other people (how dare they??) – and then somehow (SOMEHOW) gather it all up again … in the enclosed confines of the bus … and somehow (SOMEHOW) get off the bus … and then DAMMIT I still had a 3 block walk to get to my job … which, under the circumstances, might as well have been 10 miles.<\/p>\n
But Bilbo was on my mind. So I went to pick up my bags and then noticed a nice long rip along the bottom of one of them. I could see the presents within. This stumped me. I looked at one of the other paper bags and saw another rip at the corner … one which, I was SURE, seeing how the day was already turning out, would widen as my commute went on.<\/p>\n
Having those bags rip was not an option.<\/p>\n
I had no other way to carry everything. I would … I literally could not imagine what would happen to me if those bags ripped on my way into Manhattan. All I could see was me taking all of my carefully chosen presents, now strewn about the sidewalk, dumping them all into a trash can on the corner, and stalking off to work in a fury. With a lighter load but with no Christmas.<\/p>\n
I came up with a less-than-perfect solution. What if I took a large garbage bag, and put all of the presents into it? Yes, it wouldn’t have a handle – but it would be a temporary solution until I got to work – I could go buy a cheap duffel bag on the corner and then I would be all set.<\/p>\n
Okay. So that was the plan.<\/p>\n
I left everything on the sidewalk, raced back inside, into the kitchen, reached under the cupboard for the large box of garbage bags I knew was there. The second I touched it – I knew it was empty. There were no more bags.<\/p>\n
I am like my own worst nightmare. You know how women complain about men who put empty cereal boxes back into the cupboard? Well … in that moment this morning … I was a woman complaining about myself. “DAMMIT, Sheila. DAMMIT.”<\/p>\n
Okay. So no garbage bags. I was just going to have to trust to the gods above that the bags would not rip … and make my way down to the bus stop.<\/p>\n
I hated every second of my life. I also hated Christmas, presents, sunshine, happy faces, and traveling to see my family. I hated all that was good on this planet.<\/p>\n
I went back out to my hated bags, arranged myself in my lunatic fashion, and started off down the street. I was in pain. My biceps burned, my hands lost all feeling, and with every step it was like I could feel the rips opening up in the bags. Basically, I was fucked. Not to mention the fact that I still had no freakin’ clue about how I was going to get all of this shit onto the teeny little shuttle busses which take us into Manhattan – busses which are cramped when I only have my bookbag. I had no idea how this would turn out. I dreaded it.<\/p>\n
I got half a block, before I had to stop and take a rest.<\/p>\n
There were a couple of other issues:<\/p>\n
— the shoelaces on EACH of my sneakers came wildly undone. I could hear them slapping themselves against the pavement as I limped along crazily<\/p>\n
— after about 3 steps I realized that I had a terrible wedgie, which continued to get more and more and more severe, with every step. It was a hurtful wedgie. A wedgie that cannot be ignored. I felt like eventually it would cut me into two halves, and I would then be split apart and go perambulating off onto opposite street corners.<\/p>\n
I must have looked insane. Trying not to trip on my flipping-about shoelaces, trying to un-do the wedgie by kicking my legs out randomly to each side (you know, wedgie behavior), all the while carrying 5 bags with my own 2 hands. I was wearing my big sheepskin coat, a long white knit scarf, and a small red knit hat. My face was sweaty and flushed. You see these people in NYC who walk around carrying all their possessions (and possibly other people’s as well). I looked like one of those people. I could not consolidate any further. There was nowhere else to put stuff.<\/p>\n
Additionally: just in case you are trying to think of options for me: I live in a residential neighborhood which has no commerce – There is a deli across the street, which would have garbage bags, but it doesn’t open until 10. Also, I only had 3 dollars on me. I needed 2 of that for my commute.<\/p>\n
So during my breather, I considered my options.<\/p>\n
I realized that this was impossible and I was not going to be able to make it. Something terrible was going to happen.<\/p>\n
I should just call a cab and splurge on the trip into the city. But there was the 3 dollars problem and I didn’t think they took credit cards.<\/p>\n
To be honest with you all: I was BESIDE MYSELF with frustration. I felt like I was going crazy. I was DETERMINED to figure this out … but there seemed too many obstacles. Also, my arms hurt.<\/p>\n
Finally, reason broke in.<\/p>\n
“This is bull shit. I cannot do this. I am going to take all of this stuff home, stash it in my apartment, then go walk to the nearest ATM, take out a bunch of cash, walk home again, and call a car service. It sucks, and it’s inconvenient, but that’s all there is to it. This is ridiculous. If any of these bags break open, I am completely DONE for.”<\/p>\n
So that’s what I did.<\/p>\n
By this point, I was talking out loud, my voice reverberating through the empty streets.<\/p>\n
“This is ridic<\/i>ulous.”<\/p>\n
“I cannot beLIEVE this.”<\/p>\n
“I am RIPSHIT, I tell ya, RIPSHIT.”<\/p>\n
Ah … merry Christmas.<\/p>\n
It was a 15 minute walk to the nearest ATM, because basically I live in a neighborhood of people who are, at all times, on the fringes of legality. Lovely folks, all with Christmas wreaths and American flags and yellow ribbons and everything, but let’s just say this: any time I approach any of them to ask a question, no matter how benign (“Where’s the post office?”) I am treated as though I am a spy for the INS. These people do not have bank cards, is the information I am trying to impart.<\/p>\n
Finally, I get out money. I walk home. The day is beautiful, the sun is shining, the Empire State Building rises gleaming and misty above the horizon – I am blind to it all.<\/p>\n
I am all about my bags. My DAMN BAGS.<\/p>\n
I come home, I call a car service. They arrive in 5 minutes, and take me into the city. They take me to the door of my office. I gather together my 3,965 bags on the sidewalk, stagger towards the front door … The doorman sees me standing there. The doorman knows me by name. He smiles at me. He likes me. But does he open the door for me? Does he aid me in my time of need?<\/p>\n
He does not.<\/p>\n
Therefore, he is off of my list forever.<\/p>\n
Buh-bye.<\/p>\n
And now for the conclusions I have drawn<\/u>:<\/p>\n
Be warned. It may be a bit out there. I will try to be clear, but frankly, I am not in the mood for clarity.<\/p>\n
As I carefully, for the 11th time, re-arranged my strapless bag on my wrist, my duffel bag up over my wrist, my slowly-ripping bag clutched in the free hand, the other slowly-ripping bag in my other hand, with another paper bag gripped in my now-feeling-less fingers … a frantic and angry thought occurred to me.<\/p>\n
I need a husband. FAST.<\/i><\/p>\n
Now guys … let me explain. I appreciate much about men, I appreciate them for many reasons – not just for being my little man-servant. I love men’s humor, I love the hands of men, I love the curiosity of men. I love the kissing, too.<\/p>\n
My bed has a tendency to grow emptier and larger as the years go by. I started out with a full-size bed, and now I am convinced that it has become a king-size. All on its own. My dinner table is eerily quiet. I read as I eat. Before you all take out your mocking violins, I realize what this sounds like. And in calmer moods, I will say this: I love eating by myself, I love the quiet, I love stretching out sideways across my triple-king-size bed, I love not having to make conversation with someone if I don’t feel like it, thank you very much.<\/p>\n
But dammit. What I would have loved more than anything else this morning was for a man to help me carry my damn bags.<\/p>\n
And for that you need a husband.<\/p>\n
And that was one of the other things I shouted out into the quiet misty morning, as I staggered awkwardly back to my apartment for the 8th time, realizing that this was not gonna fly, and I was gonna have to get a car service. Along with shouting out, “This is ridic<\/i>ulous” I also burst out once, like an insane person, “Where the HELL is my husband??”<\/p>\n
Whoever he is, I am sure he would be absolutely thrilled to know that not only am I excited that he can take up space in my now-20-foot-wide bed, but that I cannot wait for him to do the heavy lifting.<\/p>\n
How romantic.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
This post should be read in the ironic and self-mocking tone in which I wrote it. I am fully aware of how self-pitying and how pathetic I sound, and that is the point. This morning has already been a comedy … Continue reading