LUTALICA

I've never been in the eye of a hurricane before (or even a hurricane for that matter) but I'd imagine it would be something like this:
like standing motionless on a busy street corner during rush hour in the middle of a big city--cars whirling about as blurs of steel and color on the streets like trees uprooted in the wind, people swarming the sidewalks like worker ants in an anthill going about their business. All contributing to the cacophony of sights and sounds that give life and color to the tempest of the big city.

Or maybe it can be better compared to the first day at a new school, new faces of all shapes and sizes, each with their own circle of friends and cliques and stories to tell, trying to get to class or lunch or wherever; all someplace to be, something to do, and someone to see. All in motion.

And then there's me--motionless in the center of this storm, in the middle of the school yard, new and clueless as the world happens all around me.

But here I am, I've arrived! That counts for something, right? Me, the FNG, the "I have no idea what's going on" written all over my face goes hand in hand with the dark circles under my eyes. I haven't even moved in yet. Instead, all of packaged me resides somewhere in this precarious armload of boxes and bags and luggage and baggage--all the things they said I would need to survive. Most of these are "necessities", the things you absolutely can't go without--all the neat little cubbies and compartments, tagged, bagged, and labeled appropriately. Without these, no one is gonna know who you are or who you're supposed to be. Without these, you won't know your place--and everybody has a place. It's only fair. Thus, my arms are full and still no one--not even I--knows who I am.

And the other half of my load, the non-necessities? Well, some things you'll always carry with you, no matter how hard you try to leave them behind.

All in all, it really is too much to carry. Everybody else clearly has it down to a science. Most only carry one, maybe two bags, or just a briefcase or a backpack. Some don't even carry anything at all--they hold hands with another. But me? I'm pretty sure I look ridiculous carrying all of this extra weight. I feel worse. 

So it's been a little while now--maybe a couple weeks, maybe a few months, I'm not sure--and I still have all my boxes like I'm constantly moving house but I never actually moved in. It's the nightmare of move-in day that doesn't inevitably end with sleeping in my own bed because I never found my room. Instead, it's always new boxes and new labels for new places and new faces, something for every occasion and circumstance. Always moving, forever struggling to carry everything I'm supposed to need and leaving behind anything else that doesn't fit.

So I learned to think on my feet, to categorize and summarize, to condense twenty-something years of existence into twenty seconds of "so tell me about yourself"--to revise my own history. Eventually, with some trial and error, I learned to bring forward only what I hoped was interesting, leaving out the boring parts, the mundane, the quirks, the details--because no ever sticks around long enough to find out you really are.

And now it seems like the only thing left to talk about is what fits where, and which labels are offensive or acceptable. Take a test to determine your career, your inclinations, your personality. It's all planned out for you, just pick a path and follow it, find a recipe and cook it up. Maybe I really should pick a path, but I can't even see my own feet.

I mean, it's almost comfortable. I'm wearing clothes that almost fit and I've somehow managed to shove myself into the right shape, folding and contorting myself until I almost look the part, armed with a twenty-second sales pitch for a product that I still don't fully understand--or know why I'm selling it.

But hey, stuff happens right? Sometimes things leak. Tags fall off. Boxes break. After all, they're only made of plastic and serrated cardboard. Things get mixed up, mingling into places they're not supposed to be, running the risk of contamination and potentially hazardous chemical reactions. And when stuff does happen, I embarrassingly wear the stains of my mistakes on my sleeves. And now they can see my innards smeared across my chest.

But even with all my compartments and tags and labels and warning signs, I still don't fit.

Everything hit the floor, and it all came crashing down in an instant. I didn't even see her there; I swear she just materialized out of nowhere.

My cheeks hot with embarrassment, I scrambled to pick it all up and stack it as it was before. I spent years trying to learn this balancing act and now it's all on the ground around my feet. Thanks for making me look like an idiot. Again.

I at least expected this round of 52 Pickup to be a two-player game, as she was the one who so rudely bumped into me (or I into her--doesn't matter now), but she didn't even bend over. Can you be more inconsiderate? I noticed her hands were empty, arms free. I don't think she was carrying anything before we collided, nor was she carrying anything now. No nametag, no boxes, just a smile. Who are you supposed to be?

"Are you... lost?" I fished.
"No," she smiled. "Are you?"

From the center of this whirling dervish of trash and broken boxes scattered on the ground, I watched incredulously as she extended a hand to me. If my life had been anything more than lugging useless piles of junk around for the last few years, it would've flashed before my eyes right then. But one hand isn't going to tame a hurricane.

"Thanks, but I got it."
I gritted my teeth, veins bulging on my forehead as I used my legs to lift my load off the ground like they taught me. I'm guessing she wasn't smiling anymore but I can't see much from here. Can't afford to worry about things like that; this stuff is already heavy enough. Everything still smells like cardboard.

My curiosity got the best of me, however, and it took a bit of effort to turn around and look back. I expected to see her standing there alone where I left her but she wasn't.
She was gone.
I was alone.

Heavily inspired by
"Lutalica"
The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
by John Koenig