I knew I had packed too much. Two rain jackets? Really, Amy? Mike kept telling me I packed too much. I kept saying that I would need all of it. I didn’t. And maybe it was due to my excitement about heading to Miami for a few days, but coming down the front steps from our 6th floor walk-up in NYC this morning with my 50 pound suitcase, I fell. Off the last step. Fuck.
“If I broke my ankle…” I said to myself, not really knowing what I would do if I broke my ankle. “Holy shit! Are you ok?” yelled the guy walking by. “Yeah. I’m fine.” I paused to collect myself. “Thanks for asking.”
These are the lessons when I learn the most. The moments when I beat myself up. For not planning better. For not taking my time. For packing five pairs of yoga pants when I would have been fine with two. When did I start needing so much stuff? I was never a crazy packer. This is my personal shit playing out in my life – looking good, wanting to have the right clothes so I can fit in, thinking I ‘got it’ all the time, me not asking for help. Mike was going to be at work when I left for my flight and had asked me if I would need help navigating the heavy suitcase down the six floors of narrow winding stairs of the cute NYC rental apartment. No, no. I was good. “I got it!” Ugh. Now all I’ve got is a hurt ankle and a bruised ego. I keep learning.