And I was Worried it was a Stranger

To the white, male, middle-aged business traveler flying from Detroit to State College late Friday evening, the appropriate usage of the term “It’s just me” is governed by two constraints: 1) there is some question about your identity by a second party 2) you and the second party are fairly-well acquainted. Am I the only one who plays by these rules?

I found myself in the Detroit airport late Friday night; headed home after a week of corporate indoctrin . . . oops, I mean training, in Orlando. I was not in my best state of mind for travel, exacerbated by many things, not the least of which were the head cold I picked up from my colleagues and the eight-minute sprint I’d just completed between terminals. (When the flight attendant says “You might make it if you run,” you run. At least I’d had the foresight to change into a pair of sneakers before boarding my flight in Florida.)

Luckily, the flight was delayed while we waited for the crew to arrive. (Not a sentence anyone’s likely to use very often.) The gate area was fairly empty, so I sat down at the end of a double row of chairs where only one other person was sitting. I’m talking a line of 15 chairs, with another 15 backed up to it; a woman reading on one end and me on the opposite end. There were three or four similarly populated rows in the near vicinity.

So, I’m sitting in my self-imposed, semi-quarantine (due to the above-mentioned cold), when my chair shakes and something bumps my shoulder. I employ the standard half turn to see what it is, and see that a gentleman has settled in directly behind me. Interesting seating choice, but that’s not the strange part. Apparently he noticed me turn, and responded with, “It’s just me.” I waited for a moment then shot a quick glance back to see if a) he was talking on the phone or b) it was someone I knew. No, on both counts. Now, I don’t really care that he sat that close to me (hope he enjoys this cold as much as I am) or even that he bumped me a little (it’s an airport, it happens). But “It’s just me!???!?!” I can’t overlook that.

For a limited time . . .

So the movers met me in Stamford a week ago, and despite my best efforts, it seems like I have just as much crap as I did when I landed in Georgia. Perhaps I can blame some of it on the thoroughness with which my belongings were packed, but, alas, I believe most of the blame lies in the fact that I own too much stuff.

The majority of my colleagues started this little adventure directly out of grad school . . . a.k.a. the inflatable furniture years. So, while moving is still tedious, I’m tempted to think that it’s harder for me. (“Sounds like somebody has a case of the Mondays.”) I was established. I had a home. I had a sectional. I still have the sectional (I think)—it just happens to be under a mountain of junk.

As far as the unpacking process goes, it’s much better if you don’t have any friends. Yes, I realize that sounds a little off. But trust me on this one. In Georgia, I was an organizing machine. The movers came on Thursday and by Sunday morning my apartment was completely set up, with everything in its place. This time the movers also came on Thursday: last Thursday. And, while my bed is set up, and the kitchen stuff is more or less put away, I have not yet identified a place for everything, let alone put everything in its place.

When I moved to Georgia, I didn’t know a soul there. Therefore, I had nothing better to do than unpack all day and night. On the contrary, I know a few people in Stamford (not the least of which is my roommate). And when it comes to getting stuff done, people = distractions. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Just know that if you’re planning a trip to hotel Kelly anytime soon, you might get to enjoy our new feature: the cardboard box maze. Hurry! Book now! Slots are filling up!