Rolling, rolling, rolling

Rob and I recently returned from a 4-day trip. We came home, cleaned the litter box, switched dirty clothes for clean, restocked the toiletry bag with cotton balls and travel toothpaste, ditched the rain gear and added sunscreen, and 12 hours later we and our suitcase were on a plane heading south for a family event. It sort of reminded me of "the old days."

In my Life Before Titanium, I traveled a lot for work. Rob did, too. Our suitcases often passed in the pre-dawn darkness. We racked up frequent flyer miles and we had status at the Park N Fly at the Oakland airport. It felt important and glamorous, all the travel. But it was also a bit tiring. And often lonely.

An odd anchor in those days was my suitcase. It was a basic black American Tourister rolling bag that was mostly a big hole with a folding garment bag on the lid. Nothing terribly distinct or fancy about it. It had a status-y luggage tag and a scarf on the handle to identify it. But I always used it as a carry-on; checked luggage was for people who wanted to waste time.

Although I really liked the suitcase for its function, I had no idea it served any other purpose until the one time...about five years ago...long after titanium became a part of my life and spine...I had to check the bag. It arrived on the carousel at PDX with the scarf missing and the handle mangled beyond repair. As I debated with the airline people about the small print on my boarding pass envelope releasing them of any liability for the damage done to my suitcase, I felt a surge of irrational emotion. My throat was tightening, my skin was feeling prickly, and I was on the verge of tears. All because of a suitcase.

What I thought had merely been a utilitarian service item had actually become much more. As I rolled that black hole through airports and hotels and taxis and shuttle buses, it had become familiarity. When I was in countries that spoke languages I didn't understand and in time zones that made it impolite to call home and in situations where I had a lot more responsibility than confidence, that suitcase had linked me to what I knew. It was security. It was home.

And so standing at the Customer Service Desk at the Portland airport, with my dead suitcase, I mourned. Very unexpectedly and seemingly very irrationally. But oh so necessarily.

I didn't know it until it happened, but I needed to get rid of that suitcase. After finally donating all of my business suits to a women's shelter, my suitcase was the last remaining symbol of My Life Before. I thought I had dealt with the disappointment of a career ended years earlier than planned. But seven years later, I was wrong.

I don't have a suitcase any more. We have a suitcase. Several, actually. All purchased in Portland as a set for two. My Life Now is one where I typically bring a lot more of home with me when I travel than just a suitcase; namely, I bring Rob. Traveling still tires me out; frankly more so now than it used to. But I am rarely lonely. And aside from holding our clothes, the suitcase that tags along with us is largely inconsequential.

I like this life much better.