You know, I'm spoiled. I'll admit it. I have been called a princess, and it's not anything I even try to deny. I like to be comfortable. I was a tad indulged when I was growing up - I did not learn to do laundry or clean my room until I was 15, when my dad went on an austerity kick and fired the maid. Princess-hood is not something I try to take on, but it's there, waiting for the right moment to bubble up to the surface.
Some areas have seen great release of princess behavior. I used to pout about how I look in the yoga room and not being able to wear makeup and keep my hair cute, but finally I embraced letting myself go a little and enjoying where I am. Having to lay low and let my body heal from the injury stuff means, well, some jeans have been shelved for the time being (ahem). Some days I don't have time for a perfect pedicure. I can deal with it. Really.
What I cannot deal with is playing bellhop. Full disclosure: Until recently, I would only stay in hotels that offered room service and a nice person to cart my bags down to checkout. (See? I TOLD you!) I did not let this go until I was in yoga teacher training in 2012. (Go right on and shake your head.) Most of the time, I traveled with a suitcase for my clothes, another for purses and shoes, another for an array of high-maintenance goodies - like bath oils and scented candles and my favorite blanket, and a cosmetics case. On a trip to Hawaii in 2010, I took thirteen pairs of shoes. I have been awarded with the "this person's bags are too heavy" tag at baggage check in many times, and use one as a bookmark. So, to me, getting my bags to and from my hotel room has traditionally meant requesting help from the bellhop. They have little carts, and are skilled in the wrangling of said carts.
A new reality has since set in. Increased travel has graced me with an awareness of the need to cut expenses by staying in hotels that require me to deal with my own luggage. (Having food delivered has proven an okay substitute for room service - but I'm not thinking about that right now.) I've learned to pack light(ish) and can zip around with my rolling bags like a pro. But I cannot manage a baggage cart. And I learned the extent to which I cannot manage a baggage cart Sunday night at the Hampton Inn in Ocala, Florida.
Getting the bags on board the stainless, wheeled monster was fine. Getting the monster to the elevator would have gotten me a score of three out of ten, but I managed. Maneuvering it onto the elevator? That entertained onlookers. I became desperate enough to get the thing to turn that I assumed a linebacker stance and picked up one end. When I got it to the room, for some reason beknownst only to the gods I decided to roll the thing into the room to unload. The door swung partially shut, and I swerved to avoid the potential of having it knock the cart over (I know, I know...). It went caddy-cornered through the bathroom door. Well, kind of. Straight the hell up: The damned thing got stuck between the room door and the bathroom door. Like, wedged. And I said, "Shit!"
I was hungry. I had a little piece of tres leches cake with me that I fully wanted to enjoy with a cup of decaf and a book. I was still in yoga clothes from Art of Assisting (I left Miami right after training) and had an EPIC case of yoga hair that I was suddenly very self-conscious of. Being stuck created a keen awareness that I was covered in my own dried sweat AND the dried sweat of others - - it was an assisting training, after all, that I had been to. I stood in the hallway for a couple of minutes, considering jumping over the loaded cart and into the room. Fully into zizz-out mode, I re-assumed my linebacker stance and manhandled that damned thing out of its wedged-in state and rolled it right into the room...
...where it occurred to me that all I had to do was unload it, put the bags in the hall, and gracefully roll it free. OR - - not bring it into the room at all.
So - yeah.
The next morning, I had to do it all over again. Things went a little better, save the moments it was nearly wedged caddy-corner in the elevator (this happened on the way up and on the way down). I became aware that I was saying, "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod..." over and over wheeling the thing into the lobby on my way to the car (it was listing to starboard with a vengeance) when I noticed everyone at the complimentary breakfast watching with great interest. Did you know the wheels that swivel all around need to go in the front? They do! (Hush.) I rolled it out the doors after checkout where I gently snuggled it up against some urns of greenery (satya: this was almost a crash), loaded up my little red car, took the cart back to its friends, and left.
There's not a lot I can say about deep lessons here, other than an awareness that princess moments are moments of reaction and that I clearly forgot to breathe and stay grounded. I'm considering making a little plaque of some sort that says, "Dear Annalisa: Even princesses must breathe." I might make one that I can hang on the top bar of the baggage cart at my next hotel.
Create your most bomb-diggity day ever. Namaste.
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