Excess Baggage

I bring too much stuff every time I go somewhere, especially if that somewhere is really far away. When I studied in Ireland for a semester of high school I brought photo albums, books, a couple of my favorite movies, at least five pairs of shoes, a plethora of toiletries and clothes that I did not wear one time during the four months that I was there. My host father, Liam, and my host brother, Jonathon, had to wrestle my suitcase into the "boot" of their tiny Toyota and up the stairs of their house. I am not overly concerned with the incident. It didn't bother me or have any negative repercussions, but looking back it was completely ridiculous. Ireland has book stores, drug stores and movie rental places with movies that actually play in Irish VCRs. It didn't even occur to me that these were options, and to try to pack light. When I went to Austria to see my aunt for Christmas my freshman year of college, I did better. I put my bulky winter sweatshirts and coats in those vacuum pack things that you see on infomercials. I am sure that I struggled with the shoe issue, because I always do, but I managed alright. I still brought stuff that I didn't use, though. I would like to be able to pack like Tomoko, the Japanese student that stayed with my Irish host family for a couple of the same weeks that I did, and who packed in one teeny-tiny suitcase that made me wonder where the other one was. My aunt Sarah has travelled the world with, like, two pairs of black pants and three shirts. Or so she says. I think she's telling the truth, because when she comes home she is always asking to borrow my grandma's socks, or jacket or sweater.

My desire to pack lightly for Africa started out innocently enough, as the spawn of two separate rationales that, when combined, convinced me that there could be no other way. Firstly, I want to feel the satisfaction of being able to accomplish my goal of packing for five weeks in a really small suitcase. If I can do that, I will have accomplished something that I have admired others for, and I will not have to lug around an eighty pound suitcase and keep track of a bunch of crap while I am trying to enjoy my African adventure. The other rationale is what really made it clear to me that this was a goal that I should not take lightly. Apparently, "OR Tambo, Johannesburg and Cape Town airports have a serious baggage pilferage problem," according to some reference materials that I received for this trip. Really, what is the point of bringing seventy pounds of extra stuff that is just going to get stolen? I will pack only necessities, and cheap ones at that, in a carry-on that will stay with me from my house to Minneapolis to New York to Dakar to Cape Town. No one better mess with me.

I knew that the biggest challenge of packing everything in a carry-on would be the TSA's liquid regulations. Bastard terrorists. So, to remind myself not to go overboard, like I am known to do on occasion, I put a quart-sized baggie in my bedroom. It started when I put a small bottle of lotion in it. Then on a trip to Target, I found these great little packets of Tide that are measured for washing clothes in a sink. I added those to my bag. I could not pass up the tiny body washes for $2.50 at Bath and Body Works, so I bought a couple and added them to my collection. I went to Sephora with my friend Kathy and bought some tinted moisturizer. I threw that in. My bag was starting to look a little full, so I decided that I better prioritize. I made a list of all the liquid things that I would need to bring and started buying them. I felt the pressure that only a triage nurse or a mother stranded at sea with her children could understand when I had to start cutting items. Hairspray was the first to go. I don't even use hairspray in the United States. What the fuck was I going to need it for in Africa? This is not cycle four of America's Next Top Model. Two bottles of body wash? What was I thinking? A bar of soap is not liquid, I could bring that. More devastating was the realization that my Oscar Blandi dry shampoo was losing the race against items like regular shampoo, toothpaste and my new, tiny bottle of Vera Wang Princess, which were all non-negotiable items. You may ask why I needed to put DRY shampoo in my quart-size bag of liquids. It is because it is an aerosol, and aerosols are on the list. I decided that I don't care. I am taking it anyway in a different part of my suitcase and using my powers of persuasion and my good looks to change the mind of anyone who tries to give me any trouble about it.

I successfully whittled my liquids down to the appropriate amount. They fit in a Ziploc. The zip is holding on for dear life, on the verge of busting open at a moment's notice, but it's zipped and that's all that counts. After I won that battle, I started to wonder if I could really fit everything in the minuscule suitcase that I drug up from the basement and put in my room as a constant reminder to pack conservatively. So I put an umbrella, a couple shirts, soap, an extra pair of glasses and my prescriptions for Malaria and traveler's diarrhea inside it just to get an idea of how much space I had to work with. I made the mistake of letting my friend Meghan see the suitcase and it's contents, and she commented, "Wow. You are going to Africa in a month and you are halfway packed." I told her that I would appreciate if she said that I "threw some things in a suitcase" as opposed to saying that I had started packing. I also swore her to secrecy. Finally, I corrected her obvious exaggeration. I would say that I am only about a third or fourth packed.

Tattoodles

Last Sunday, after Logan's little attempt to get some underage ass, I got a call from the Colombian. He wanted to know if I wanted to "accompany" him to get a tattoo, which really meant that he needed a ride. I drive a hard bargain, so I made him agree to pay for the gas and it was settled. Right after I went to the Sex and the City movie I would pick him up. I had never seen anyone get a tattoo before, except on Miami Ink of course, so I was pretty excited. I was also nervous. I think the nerves stemmed from the fact that the idea for the tattoo came from me. Let me paint a picture: South American guy with a hot body adorned with a crucifix. In my opinion, all that was missing was a little ink. How hot would a cross or some Catholic virgin or something be? So I told him that he should get a tattoo with the inflection that perhaps only a native speaker would recognize as purely impulsive. It was one of those things that you say and that you mean, but you didn't necessarily mean to say, because it starts something that you didn't necessarily mean to start. So, as we drove to Minneapolis, I asked him approximately a billion times if he was sure that he wanted to do this. A tattoo? It would be there forever. It would hurt. It could get infected. He just shrugged and said that he was sure.

So we made it to St. Sabrina's, where I went with Jenny Boe to get my lip pierced when she lived in that neighborhood, and we checked in. We waited, him impatiently and me nervously, for Pedro to make a stencil of the "Death Before Dishonor" tattoo that he was going to get across his back. It wasn't something Catholic like I had hoped, but it was just about as original. I guess it's a military thing. So Pedro finished the stencil and we went upstairs to get down to business.

I think that Pedro was surprised to see the Colombian's scars when he took off his shirt, both the long one along the left side of his back and the ones that cover his left arm. He was like, "What happened man?" The Colombian told him that he was in the Colombian army and that he was injured fighting the guerrilla. Just like that. Said in a matter-of-fact tone dissimilar to the one that I would most likely use in that situation. To me scars are like little trophies of toughness. The one on my knee? Yeah, I got that bustin' a move on my purple rollerblades back in the day. You can't even see it? Wait until I get a tan. That one on my shin? Fifth grade. Nasty fight with a razor. Apparently I was applying too much pressure. Pedro did ask some questions, but the Colombian gave short answers to those, too. He had been shot five times, and had twenty-eight surgeries total. Yes, there were still bullets inside his body. At that moment I remembered the awe I felt when I had heard all this for the first time. I was reminded that this was a very unique person with an incredible story. I liked that he didn't milk the story for attention, even though it wouldn't really be wrong if he did.

As luck would have it, Pedro was pretty cool. He was very nice like I had hoped, and he was fluent in Spanish, as one might guess by his name, but probably not by his looks. His dad was from Boston and his mom was Chilean, and he had spent several years of his childhood living in Chile. He was a guest artist at St. Sabrina's, but was booked out for months at the shop in Portland that he owned. My roommate, Jen, wants to move to Portland so I thought of her and figured I should get the name of the shop in case I am ever in Portland and need a tattoo.

After the tattoo, the Colombian and I went to Chipotle. It was the same Chipotle that Jenny Boe and I went to during her lying phase. She was wearing an ITALIA shirt and the guys working asked her if she was from Italy. She said she was. They asked her what part and she said the north part. She is from a town of sixty-three in southern Minnesota. This was around the same time that a girl at the mall asked her where she got her skirt and she said that she made it. Completely untrue. She doesn't even sew. It was an entertaining stage to say the least. Anyway, I went first in the Chipotle line and because the Colombian and I are only friends now, I paid for my own food. That is what I do when I am with my other friends. He called me out on it and asked me why I didn't let him pay. I told him that I had money and that I could pay for my own food. I have noticed that I always try to assert my independence when I am with him. Like making him agree to pay for gas so I wouldn't feel like he was using me, even though I really wanted to go with him to get his tattoo.

The ride home was very pleasant. There was good conversation and no arguments or power struggles. I felt like I used to about him. Then the meaning of him having his tattoo forever and my going with him occurred to me, and because I am a person who says what she thinks, I told him. Unlike so many times when we try to communicate, there were no misunderstandings. He got it right away. He could never forget me, because there was a permanent reminder right across his back.

So, last night I had to say goodbye again. I would be lying if I said all these goodbyes have been easy for me. I said goodbye to my best friend Jenny Boe a few weeks ago. She is spending the summer in Venezuela. Two weeks ago I took another of my closest friends, my roommate Jen, to the airport for her flight to Copenhagen for a nursing internship. It has seemed like months since she left. But last night I had to do it again, only this time it is not just for the summer. The Colombian is going home, and as dysfunctional as whatever relationship we have is, I care about him and am going to miss him. The goodbye, like many things in life, did not go how I wanted it to. I was not beautiful, and eloquent and cool about it. I didn't say anything funny or important. I just got mad and started crying, and once I started I didn't stop. That was it and now he is gone. I know that the way Portland reminds me of my roommate Jen, and St. Sabrina's and vicinity reminds me of Jenny Boe, there will be things that make me think of him. But for now I am feeling alone in Rochester, anticipating Africa, thinking about Colombia and waiting for my heart to come back from Denmark and Venezuela.

Sex it Up

When Kari decided to move out, Jenny put an ad in the classifieds at work because we didn't know anyone at the time who was looking for a place. We got two responses. One was from this guy named Ahmed. Actually, his friend called on his behalf, and there was definitely a language barrier going on. I am all about diversity, though, so Jenny and I looked him up on the company directory. Turns out that he is a middle-aged, middle-Eastern plastic surgeon. Don't get me wrong, I don't discriminate against the middle-aged, and I think it could be interesting to have a roommate with a different culture. Kind of like a foreign exchange student. But sharing my home with a plastic surgeon? Now that I have a problem with. I can just picture it. I would wake up, walk into the bathroom and get naked for my shower and my body would be covered with those thick black marker lines depicting where he intended to nip and tuck everything that needed nipping and tucking. I realize that I have probably watched a little too much Doctor 90210, but with a bangin' body like mine it seems like a legitimate fear.

The other response we got was from Logan, an eighteen-year-old kid that works at the hospital. His photo in the directory and his fluency in English were pretty much all we had to go on, but we deemed him non-threatening, and he came over and looked at the house. He was interested, and I wanted to meet him, so we met at school. Our conversation was short and sweet. I asked him if he was going to kill me in my sleep. Any idiot would answer no to this question even if that person was a sociopath. Probably especially if they were a sociopath. But Logan passed my test when he asked me if I was going to kill him in his sleep.

So last weekend he moved in. That was back when I couldn't walk, so I came home from working the longest twelve hour shift of my life, took fifteen minutes to hobble up the stairs and threw myself onto my bed. We made a little small talk as he got ready to go out. I realized the magnitude of those four little years between eighteen and twenty-two when he asked me if I was "just going to lay there on a FRIDAY night." It wasn't even nine. What the hell? He didn't even give me a chance. Oh, who was I kidding...I was not going anywhere. I told him that I couldn't walk and that I had to work the next morning at seven. I am becoming so lame, and I barely even care.

I think things have been going well so far. I now have surround sound on my TV, and he is pretty tidy. Not to mention that it makes for some pretty interesting observations of male behavior. Like when, after an hour and a half phone conversation with some chick, he informed me that girls are complicated. Like every other guy, he just wants to get laid. Insight into the male psyche cannot hurt my current situation.

There have been awkward moments. Well, just one, and it was my fault. I brought the Colombian over, and I wasn't exactly sure how to handle it. Should I warn Logan? But then he wouldn't be able to be in denial about it. So I opted for the sneak attack and got busted upon entrance. He is eighteen, not eight, and he knew what was going down. Sometimes I am a bad roommate, but fuck, I gotta do what I gotta do.

This weekend, when Logan informed me that he was having his underage friends over to party, my ass got the hell out of dodge. For a split second, I considered just staying home in my room. Then I realized that if I was home and this party got busted, I would be arrested. Worse than that, I would have to tell people why I was arrested. I couldn't help but think of that creepy girl who hangs out with much younger kids because she can hook them up with beer if they will be her friends. Everyone knows one. People would think I was her. How did I get myself into this situation? And what was Ahmed doing right now? I'll bet he wasn't trying to get lucky with sixteen-year-old girls. God-willing. Jenny and I joked about our house being a brothel, but in that scenario I was supposed to be a whore not a madam. I went to Meghan's praying that I would not come home to total destruction, or have to witness high school girls' walks of shame. When I got home I entered with caution, but my house was no more and no less unkempt than usual. The girls had already evacuated. All was well.

I think my fears of theft and illicit drug use in my attic have been put to rest. What can I say? I have trust issues, but I think this is going to work out just fine.

We Can Work it Out

Recent evidence suggests that I am some kind of masochist. First of all, I ended up talking to the Colombian again, and I cannot even believe it. I know that I am lacking in the self-discipline department, but sheesh. I really thought that I could sever all ties. If for nothing else, at least for the principle of it. Oh well. I am not going to worry about it anymore, because he is going back to Colombia in a couple weeks. Then I won't have any choice but to not talk to or do other things with him. So that problem is solved.

My other problem is more immediate. I can't walk. As part of my ongoing battle to make myself a better me... blah, blah, blah... I have been seeing a wellness coach who I will call Lisa. I have been seeing Lisa for about four months now. For the first three, I met with her every week. Now I meet with her every two weeks. I feel for this woman. Every meeting starts out with Lisa asking me very cheerily to tell her something positive that has happened since we last met. At first this caused some confusion. Apparently, my social life and drunken escapades, while probably the highlights of my week, are not things she wishes to hear about. I am to restrict my comments to things that pertain to my wellness. I can see in her eyes that she wants to hear that I was able to say no to a really tempting dessert or that I came in and worked out an extra day. I hate to be a disappointment, but nothing like that ever happens to me, and if it did it would not be the highlight of my week...I would be lucky if I even remembered. After I figured out this whole routine I would try to rack my brains for anything remotely impressive, but on several occasions I had to resort to the stammered default.

She'd ask what went well for me that week.
"Uh, well, uh...my goals?"
"What about your goals was positive?" she'd ask.
Shit. Specifics. "I...mmmm.....well, I kind of did them."

One week she finally gave up and quit asking. Of course it was the week I had actually planned what I was going to say ahead of time. I think that was the week I got a cheeseburger, small fries and small Sprite at McDonald's instead of my usual value meal. After a little research I discovered that this meant consuming three-hundred and forty fewer calories. I thought that the effort of my calculations, and the numbers themselves were pretty impressive. I did end up telling her about it at the end. I almost wish I hadn't bothered because my theory is that she had made the decision to stop eating up time by asking, then she felt bad that I came through when she had given up on me. She has asked me at every session since.

After the standard opening routine, we buckle down and examine my progress. We go back and look at the goals that I made for the time between sessions and see if I did them. If I didn't we have to talk about what went wrong. It is kind of lame, but I guess if I can't have these conversations with myself I need someone on the outside to ask me the hard questions. For example, if I made the goal to come to the gym four times a week, and then I told her that I only came three, we have to strategize. This involves a lot of questions that I do not have answers for. If I knew a way to get my lazy ass to the gym every day I would be capitalizing on it. So we have to analyze the hell out of it, and try to make a plan that will get my goal accomplished. Manifestations of these brainstorms have included trying a group class, the thought of which nearly induced an anxiety attack. I did it up, though, and went to a god-awful spinning class twice and a kinesis demo. I have also discovered that it is easier for me to get to the gym when I go with other people, and if I go when there is something on TV that I want to watch. So I guess these analyses are helping a little.

Recently, Lisa and I have been focusing completely on diet and I have started seeing a trainer for my exercise needs. I will call him Greg. He is the anti-Christ. First, I met with him to do an assessment. I had to sit in this thing that measured my percentage of body fat. Then he took measurements of my arms, legs, waist and butt. I had to get on the treadmill and he measured how much oxygen was getting to my muscles, and then I had to do the sit-and-reach to test my flexibility. We determined that we have a lot of work to do. He then made me do the cardio workout that he wants me to be doing on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. He stood next to my machine and worked the controls. I almost died. I came back the next day and actually did it again, much to my surprise. Then the following day I met with him to give me my strength training routine. It pretty much sucked, but the real kicker came the next day. It is an understatement to say that my movement was impeded. I had to work yesterday, and by the end of my thirteen hour shift I could barely walk. I took two ibuprofen and two Tylenol and they didn't even touch the pain. I didn't go to work today. I don't think that another thirteen hours on my feet is going to put me on the road to recovery. Plus, I am sick of feeling like a moron, and getting laughed at.

Call me old-fashioned, but I think it is counterproductive when my workout prevents me from doing my job. Not to mention sitting on the toilet, using stairs, bending over or the fact that I obviously cannot workout in this condition. At least I will have a good excuse this time when Lisa asks me why I haven't been getting in my workouts. I really don't think that she can find fault in the fact that I can't workout because of my workout.