Baggage

 Luggage. 

That's my big takeaway from forty-one years ago. I graduated from high school, and I got luggage. Not from my parents. This gift came to me via our "Uncle" Joe, who felt that this would be the best expression of the next act in my life. I had been accepted to the college of my choice, or at least the acceptance part made me feel like I had made a choice. I was preparing to jet off to Mexico with the marching band for one last big fling. Having a proper receptacle for my belongings seemed like the correct sendoff. 

It was a pistachio green duffle bag with a matching zippered bag for my personal hygiene items. It was made of the kind of ripstop nylon you might expect came from a surplus parachute. But the label, Le Sportsac, let you know that this was no ordinary duffle bag. It was a designer duffle bag. Later that week, I stuffed my new bag full of T-shirts and shorts, jammed the smaller bag full of shampoo (which used to be a concern of mine) a toothbrush (still a concern) and a travel size tube of Crest. Off I went on a summer tour of our neighbor to the south. 

Upon my return, I unpacked that bag, and made a note to get a smaller bottle of shampoo for the next trip. Which was a little ridiculous since the next trip was going to be the one that took me to Santa Fe, New Mexico to start my college career. For the weeks in between, that bag sat in a crumpled ball at the floor of my closet. Patiently. When it was finally time to pack up to leave home, the process was similar to the one that sent me off to a foreign land to have performances cancelled. How many T-shirts would fit inside that duffle? The toiletries became a separate issue, because I would need enough zit medicine to get me all the way to Thanksgiving. 

Or so I thought. 

In reality, I never fully unpacked. As ready as I had been to run off to Mexico with the marching band, I was not prepared to make the jump to hyperspace: to make a home for myself in a dorm room four hundred miles away. I was never fully enrolled in the College of Santa Fe. I didn't make it to orientation. I checked out and rode home in the back seat of my parents' station wagon. Le Sportsac still stuffed with all those T-shirts. When I moved back to my room in the basement, much to the disappointment of my younger brother who had been next in line for the dungeon, I tossed that bag back into the corner of my closet, where it sat. And waited. 

Over the next decade or so, that duffle went on a number of trips. Some of them were short hops across town to move into new apartments. Some were trips to visit friends. One such voyage was a flight to California to connect with this girl I used to know in high school. The one that would eventually become my wife. 

And when it came time to pack up my belongings and move to another state to live, that bag was a little worse for the wear, but still held a lot of T-shirts, and they came with me to live in California. Some time after that, I started travelling as a family from here to there, so my luggage needs changed. I didn't need the shampoo as much, but I did need a place for conditioner and face cream and all the attendant wifely beauty aids. And a bunch of my T-shirts. Au revoir, Le Sportsac. Hello, family life.