I hate traveling.
I started out my trip today with a strut in my step that was magnified by a recently purchased cane, a twinkle in my eye that was accentuated by my blue Kangol hat, and a joyful warmth in my body made warmer by the green velvet vest that allows my hands the pleasure of rubbing my chest, the black polyester/nylon woman’s jacket that draws out my non-existent curves, the baby blue Tommy Hilfiger bathrobe that gently massages my skin’s soul with its fluffy love, and the long purple Willy Wonkesque coat that fulfills m strong desires to be noticed. Now I sit in a damp pile of many materials sweating as I wait for the next leg of my journey to begin.
In Minneapolis I got my bags searched. The workers were friendly enough – interested in my desire to act, not that questioning of my desire to keep two old driver’s licenses for nostalgia purposes, appropriately flattering in their shock and admiration for my complicated math notes – but after the flustering experience of being patted down while holding my breath so that my beltless pants wouldn’t drop to the floor, I lost my cane somewhere in the airport.
I got to my connecting flight in Chicago only to find that the plane I was getting onto was the same I had just left, and my new seat was only one seat in front of my previous. This frustratingly inane movement with heavy bags cutting off the circulation to my arms allowed me to lose track of my hat.
This all happened after an early transportation of my belongings to my friend’s place ended with him not being awake, thus me leaving my bags and multiple coats outside his car door and taking a walk to find an email checking machine, thus not realizing the sudden rainstorm, thus coming back to his house/car to discover a threesome of muddy women’s coats.
Now I sit sweaty because, even if I can’t fit them in my bag, I shouldn’t have worn five layers when it’s 65 degrees out, damp because three of the five layers are recent puddle dwellers, and sad because my eyes can’t pop and my feet can’t strut.
Sure, I could have just discarded these articles of fashion that have made my travels so miserable and be out less than $10 (Hat – $3 @ thrift store in L.A., Cane – $1.95 @ Ax-Man, Black Jacket – $10 @ thrift store in Victoria found $5 in the pocket, Vest – free @ dad’s closet, Purple coat – free @ high school costume closet, Bathrobe – free @ habitat for humanity bin), but those articles of things made me the happy…er…well… content man I was, now I am simply the depressed soul I wish to be. So I repeat: I love traveling.
3 thoughts on “Why traveling seems like a lot of work”
I’m excited for the prospect of your exporting horrifying masochism. whats your final destination? I also have an idea for a new blog if you get bored with your two current projects. It would be a style blog, like the “sartorialist” or some other such rot, but you would only take pictures of hobo style. Or people that obviously don’t give a hoot about what they wear. It would be straight up tongue in cheek, and eventually would gain acclaim/ be polarizing. As you know I am in the southern hemisphere, it is cold yo. also, I am writing a sketch about AIG, so I’ve got that going for me. stay fresh. joe
You can take as many pictures of me as you want. I love seeing myself – especially in a public forum.
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