I just finished my school semester, but before this, life was pretty hairy. I was up to my ears in everything. Which is saying less than if I was a giant basketball player, however it was busy. At one point I asked my father for help. He said no. So I shored myself up and internally encouraged myself by saying “If you won’t help me then I will help myself. To your alcohol.”
So I did. It was a fantastic idea. Or at least I thought so until I got dropped off at the subway station and had to carry my bootleg bounty down the stairs. Up until that point my father had very kindly transported my bag for me from the house to the car and then from the car to the sidewalk in front of the station. All the while wondering out loud what I had packed in my suitcase. “Rocks Dad, rocks, and heavy, knowledge-filled textbooks.”
It was only when I was faced with lifting all of the Baileys from my father’s house down the metal subway stairs, along with all of my other belongings that I began to question my coping strategy.
Luckily subways are located underground so between my spindly arms and the force of gravity, my bag and I clumsily made our way to the bottom of the steps.
That was when I saw it- the turnstile. On the best of days turnstiles hit me somewhere around the sternum. But to top off the theft of my father’s liquor cabinet, I also had a giant backpacking bag with me that I was hauling home in preparation for a forty kilometer hike through the woods. Being a bright soul, I had jammed it full of apples and actual books. An excellent choice for one who normally complains about carrying heavy pillows.
Crossing the ticket barrier with the Mini Cooper sized backpack alone would have been a feat, but trailing two bottles of Baileys, some ice wine and couple fingers of scotch in a suitcase, it was looking impossible. However, this was not my first small person rodeo, so I shimmied up to the turnstile, holding onto my subway token before I was sure that I could make it through. As the arms of the barrier caught both my stomach, back and knapsack simultaneously, I let out a cry; “NiieAH, gRAh!” Far from being past the metal obstacle, I was now stuck. “HuhYEie” I called as I struggled to move the bottom of the backpack up so it was sitting on the turnstile rather than wedged with me in between the two metal boxes.
A combination of a jump/twist/fall wedged the giant backpack on top of the barrier. Having attached myself to the enormous bag, I was also yanked up, so my options were standing on my tiptoes or allowing the waist strap to cinch me into a size zero. The last option would have been more comfortable if not for Jeremiah, my burgeoning food baby. Balanced on my toes like some sort of pack-mule crossed ballerina, I attempted to drag my overly heavy suitcase into the turnstile with me, while continuing to emit pterodactyl sounds “Nrah! SHuuueee”.
At last, with my person, the giant backpack and my stolen booze trapped in the turnstile, I was poised to pay. Dropping my token in turned the metal arms and I fell sideways, however the backpack was still sitting atop the barrier and my heavy suitcase refused to allow my falling body through. “EeeeNYah” I cried, triumphantly yanking myself and all my possessions sideways, regaining my balance just before my face hit the subway floor.
After making my way down the escalator to the subway platform, I decided to celebrate the moment with a photo.
Not pictured- my attempt to stand after sitting in the subway. There may have been more pterodactyl cries.