Revolving Door Woman, Die

I debated for awhile whether to pack light or not for my long weekend getaway with Jason. I initially set out to dump my mini-vacay wardrobe -- all 10 outfits worth -- in my Ralph Lauren overnight bag. For a split second I thought I was all set. Then I realized that I still had my toiletries, two pairs of shoes, hair dryer, and a light jacket to pack.

So forget my initial pack-light venture.

I ended up bringing my pink Delsey luggage. Everything fit perfectly with room to spare should I decide to make a quick stop to H&M or Zara before I leave.

But here's my gripe. Walking around Manhattan con luggage during rush hour was (for the lack of a better word) a nightmare. Actually, rewind an hour, getting on my train from New Brunswick was a chore for starters. There's about a foot gap between the platform and train -- nice (Ysolt says saracastically as she nearly breaks her arm hoarding the heavy luggage carrying more than a weekend's worth of outfits). Yes, totally my fault for not packing light and bringing three pairs of shoes, along with appliances.

Anyway ...

I get to my destination. And duhhh -- I can't go the manual-stair route. I scoured for an escalator. I found one! Only, people trying to get to work just don't allot for my luggage space. They're trying to step over it, tripping on it, etc. Hey, it's not my fault you're blind! I mean, what do you want me to do? Carry it over my head, heaven forbid it is within two feet of your personal space, which by the way, is public space anyway.

So I finally made my way to the outside world. As I made my way five blocks to my office, my luggage had managed to touch puddles from yesterday's showers. No big deal, not the worst thing that could happen.

Fast forward 10 minutes later and the worst thing did happen: The only way to get into my office building was through a revolving door. I hate those things to begin with. Pair my hate with hard-to-maneuver luggage, and you've got a recipe for disaster. As I made it in, I went slowly as I drew my not-so-modest carryon through the rolling nightmare. However, to my dismay, a woman who got in the revolver moments after me decided not to care that I was struggling. She pushed the door quicker than I could catch up and my bag got caught. But did she stop to give me a moment to recover? No. The crazy lady kept on pushing regardless of resistance (from my caught luggage and dissheveled self).

I finally managed to make it out of the revolving door alive. But did she say sorry? No. She looked at me and chuckled. What a whore!

Stand by for my blog about Chicago.