Tuesday, September 3, 2013

On my drive back to Charlotte, as wave after wave of torrential rain pounded the cabin of my U-Haul, I asked myself why, precisely, this exact series of events had to transpire like so. The mandate was simple enough: clear out a storage unit, bring the wares back to Charlotte, and then eBay the shit out of the stuff in preparation for my move to Dallas. In place of a lazy summer drive, however, was an utterly harrowing passage, thick with fog, rain like fat darts, a slow-moving trail of blinking hazards stretching to the horizon.

I paid close attention to my mirrors, to be sure, and then, in a wholly natural reaction to the situation, I framed the experience as another chapter in my hero’s journey. Indeed, I had a clear picture of the person I am and the person I’d like to be, and this trial was simply the price of admission to span the divide. The trip concluded without incident, and I’ve developed a deep appreciation for how professional movers contend with limited visibility and mileage-per-gallon well below 10.

The selling itself still needs to be tackled, but that’s going to have to take a back seat. There is a fresh hurdle to negotiate this week, namely clothes shopping. My business casual wardrobe requires substantial updating by Saturday, and that means new dress shirts. I never understood the ceremony with the packaging–a mangled wreck of paper, plastic, and pins–but the cuffs on one of the shirts particularly confounded me. French cuffs, they’re called, and duly so because after about three minutes, it was like, I surrender. Where the hell did the buttons go? Do people even still make cuff links? This was basically the Mongolian barbecue of shirts, where you’re paying a premium for a partially assembled product. You win, shirt. I’m waving a white flag tomorrow in the shape of a sales receipt.