Flying out.

Or: I am bad a being a responsible adult.

I thought I did really well.  I had all of my crap packed into two giant suitcases the night before we were going to leave and everything.  Then I did laundry.  And bought shampoo.  It became significantly more difficult to fit all of my stuff, but we needed to head out, so all things were shoved and squashed and promised to be fixed later.

My mom and sister pretty much repacked my bags for me.  Because I am incompetent and think that, “just shove it in, it’ll fit” is a good approach to packing.  I was wrong.  Packing a suitcase is fucking art.  There was fancy folding and placing and laying.  Nothing like the wrinkled monstrosity that was my pack job.  With that, I opted to stay up all night and we got to the airport at 5:30 AM. 

It certainly seemed early enough and I was all set to go with my previously unweighed bags.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  Probably, “I am moving across the world and have to take pretty much all of my worldly belongs with me.  Plus a year’s worth of shampoo and other body products.  And sure, if it’s over it’ll be no big deal, I’ll pay the fee and call it a day.  Because airlines are reasonable and understanding.”  That last bit was my downfall.

My bags were thirty pounds overweight, which I honestly find to be an impressive feat in excess even for me.  The fee was going to be $100 per bag which seemed a bit much, but there was nothing I could do about it.  I have a size 11 foot, Japan.  I need to bring shoes.  Then the lady checking me in was like, “wait a minute.”

“Wait a minute” is never something you want to hear from the lady between you and a new job in a foreign nation.

As it turns out, they simply won’t take a bag over 70 pounds.  You’re just SOL. 

Fortunately, I had the option of checking a third bag, which I jumped on.  It was pretty much a huge duffel bag that I started to shove all of my crap into while I decided there was a bunch of stuff I just didn’t need.  Because at that point I didn’t care.  My mom was super cool about it.  And kept telling me to chill and that we could fit it all.  But chill I would not because I know basic arithmetic and understood that one of the bags would be overweight no matter what and I just didn't want to deal with this shit. 

Fortunately, the lady between me and the rest of my life had to leave for the day, and she handed me over to the nicest airline guy ever.  He gave me the option of going a teensy bit over the weight limit, which I jumped on.  He also helped me out by checking me in while I repacked everything and ran back and forth taking and giving passports and credit cards and sympathetic glances. 

Luckily, I got everything sorted out.  Bags sent, extra baggage fee paid, ready to go.

As we were walking away my mom asked if I had my passport. I did the appropriate eye-roll “of course I have my passport, it is the most important thing in my life right now” face and went off to security.  Where I promptly reached for my passport only to realize I didn’t have it.  What a moron.

What followed was a frantic mad-dash around the airport as I looked everywhere for my missing passport/visa/if you don’t have this, you’re fucked. My sister was freaking out while trying to keep me from having a breakdown, my grandma was crying, my mother was supremely disappointed (also horrified), and I was the palest I have probably ever been in my life. 

Then I looked at my mom’s pocket.

“Check your pocket.”

“I already did.  It wasn’t there.  Did you repack it?”

“I don’t know?  Can we get the bags back? What’s that lump in your pocket? Brit, go retrace our steps as I throw the contents of my carry on across the floor.”

“It’s nothing. It’s- oh.”

It was in my mom’s pocket.  I must have handed it to her when I got it back while we were repacking.

I made it to Japan, though.  After I lost my bags at Narita and was questioned for having so much luggage by customs.