Lost luggage.

I stood there, baggage claim number 4 in the Salt Lake City International Airport, staring. Staring at the silver mechanical carousel and the bags that circled it. I watched large bags and small bags, bulgy bags and oblong bags pass by me. But none of them were my bag.
"It'll come," my mom said.
But it never did. Eventually all of the bags had been claimed and the carousel was empty and shiny. I walked around and stopped and stared at the belt where I had seen the other bags come out. I hoped that mine would pop up and shoot out onto the carousel and all would be well. But it never did. I watched the belt come to a stop and I knew then that the moment had come upon me.
I was a victim of lost luggage.
My bag was out there, alone in that dark world of planes and rubber belts and men who wear yellow vests and hold orange lights. My bag was out there. And I had no idea where "there" was.
It's a strange feeling, losing your luggage. It's almost the same as not getting picked for a team. Or opening an empty mailbox.
It's a sad thing.
I asked myself, why? Why did I have to pack my favorite orange dress, my new leather boots, my expensive eye shadow, and my hair straightener all in the same bag? Why would I make myself that vulnerable?
And why did I care so much?
The woman in the office told me she was sorry. She tried to wrap my loss in promises of a $30 credit toward my next flight and assurances of a 99% recovery rate. I let these promises and hopes wrap around me and I tried to believe them with all of my heart. But one voice wouldn't stop asking, "But what if it's lost forever?"
My sister told me maybe I didn't want them to find it, maybe I wanted my luggage to be lost. She'd heard tales of enormous shopping sprees and new wardrobes. For a moment, "new wardrobe" hung in the air and I let its scent give me hope. Then I realized I didn't want the new, I wanted the old.
I drove home and felt light.
I missed a call. The number was a Washington area code, unfamiliar. In a moment of unprecedented bravery, I called them back, but there was no answer. My mind was racing. I sent a text to the number, "Do you have my luggage by chance?" I asked.
But there was no answer.
I began to imagine my life without my luggage. How could I ever get a new retainer? Did orthodontists keep teeth molds from past patients on record?
I wondered.
I feared.
I hoped.
I tried to carry on normally.
After all, it was just luggage. What if I had returned to Salt Lake City without my limb? Or without my eyes? Or without my mother? What if had I lost those things?
I was grateful.
But forgetful.
I had forgotten to include my luggage in my prayers.
I tried again.
"Please God, help them find my luggage."
And there was silence.
Two days later, 5:40 P.M., I received a call.
"Cara Gillespie?"
"Yes?"
"We have your bag."

This is how I feel.

This is exactly how I feel when people ask me about my plans after graduation. Holden Caulfield understands.

"A lot of people, especially this one psychoanalyst guy they have here, keeps asking me if I'm going to apply myself when I go back to school next September. It's such a stupid question, in my opinion. I mean, how do you know what you're going to do till you do it? The answer is, you don't. I think I am, but how do I know? I swear it's a stupid question."

          —The Catcher in the Rye

I love this and I hate this.

I recently stumbled across this article and it really struck a chord with me. As much as I wish it wasn't true, a lot of life is struggling. The higher the reward, the greater the struggle. You can't expect to get something simply because you decide you want it. It takes work. It takes sacrifice. We truly do know our joy only by contrast.

The Grateful 12

1. Warm November days
2. My pink plaid pajama pants
3. My fuzzy brown blanket
4. Sweet potato fries
5. My laptop
6. Puppies
7. Walnuts
8. Roommates
9. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland
10. America
11. Long talks with mother
12. BYU

The internet gives me anxiety.

Living in a house that is approximately 100 years old has recently led me to develop a concern for carbon monoxide poisoning. In an effort to gain a more thorough understanding of the matter, I googled it. And this is what I found:

     Depending on the degree and length of exposure, carbon monoxide poisoning can cause:

1. Permanent brain damage.
2. Damage to your heart, possibly leading to life-threatening cardiac complications years after the poisoning.
3. Death.

Great.

The Events of Halloween

Yesterday was Halloween. I dressed up as a gypsy for the billionth time. My costume was basically just my wardrobe mismatched and my hair done in crazy braids with a scarf tied in it. Creative, I know. I really like to dress up. And by really, I mean I actually kind of hate dressing up. It makes me nervous, don't ask me why. In elementary school, I was always the kid who didn't participate in Pajama Day or Crazy Hair Day. Even when the teacher would offer extra credit for dressing up, I couldn't bring myself to do it. School spirit weeks were slow and agonizing. So much dressing up. So much stress.

But Halloween has always been my exception. It is the one dressing up day that I will participate in. Well, that and the Sabbath. (I feel like there is something wrong in grouping Halloween with the Sabbath.) The only downside to dressing as a gypsy is people always ask me to tell them their fortune, and it's usually people I don't know very well. This question tends to stun me into silence because suddenly, I am caught between a rock and hard place. There really is no good option here because no matter what I say, it will come out creepy. And people tend to take this whole fortune telling business pretty seriously. Even if they know you just pulled some fortune out of your booty, they still think that maybe, on some deep, subconscious level, you know and I just can't handle that kind of psychological liability. Especially considering that the first fortunes that come to my mind are along the lines of "You will soon be involved in a struggle for your very life" or "What you think is safe will be no longer" or "The future is bleak. Bleak indeed." These are all things no normal human being wants to hear, which is why I usually just laugh off these fortune requests. It's for the best.

Anyway, so last night I trumped out into the streets of Provo with my friends, costume and all. I even put a fake tattoo on the back of my shoulder to make me appear more legitimate.

Our first stop of the night was our ward Halloween party, which consisted of frosting cookies, drinking root beer, dancing about, and watching people eat donuts off of strings. Par-tay. The high point of all this was when two boys accidentally kissed during the donut eating competition. It was pretty traumatizing for both of them.

Later, we went to a cemetery with some friends and read scary stories. First, we read one about "The Scuttler." (I know, the name alone.) Then we read a few other stories and told a few real stories, when all of the sudden we noticed this darkly dressed figure coming towards us down the cemetery path with a knife. The lights were dim and he had a dragging limp. Needless to say, I was freaking out. I kept trying to stay calm by telling myself that it was just a random homeless man and he wouldn't actually do anything. But he just kept getting closer. So in a moment of superb bravery, I fled. I guess when it comes to fight or flight, I'm a flight. As I ran away, I continued glancing over my shoulder, watching the walker's progress. Just as the walker got close enough to the boys who, in an act of what I thought was pure selflessness had remained behind, he stopped. And pulled off his wig. And lo and behold, it was our friend. I was relieved and outraged all at the same time. It was the best Halloween prank I've ever experienced.

But the crowning jewel of all the night was the Halloween Dance. Just kidding, it was horrible. The DJ was dumb and made me want to punch him and all of his silly scantily-clad back-up dancers. The speakers were so bad that all you could hear from the music was the bump of the bass. They made the vocals sound like the singer was underwater. Yet there were still 3,000 people there, mushing and smashing against each other, sweat and costume make-up all combining into one, giant cesspit. The whole thing just struck me as incredibly ridiculous, the most ridiculous part being that I was there, even though I thought it was ridiculous. It was gross. Why is this considered fun? Why do we all gather and smash against each other so we can shake our hips to words like "do the stanky leg" and "we'll keep dancing 'till we die"? We're going to die here? On this dance floor? Um, no thank you. I choose life.

In the past, I probably would have thought this dance was cool. I would have been energized by the rush of people and music and invigorated by the lyrics that encourage you to live it all up tonight because tonight is the only night that matters. But now I see through that. And all of it is so empty. There is more to life than being the sexiest "shawty" on the dance floor. And every human being is more dignified than to sink to the level of grinding; it is vulgar and strips people of their dignity. Throw in hideous costumes that are three patches of colored fabric away from pure nakedness, and you have the perfect recipe for dignity extermination.

That's why last night I decided I don't want to go to dances like that one anymore. It's not worth it. I guess you could say I'm an old fuddy-duddy. Fine. I'll take it. I'd rather be an old fuddy-duddy than pretend that I'm happy being herded like livestock by a DJ, all in the name of the glorified "party" mentality. We all want attention. We all want to be loved. We all want to be a part of something greater than ourselves. But dances like that are not a healthy way to get it.

Well, that was my Halloween. Through all of that, the best part was just being with my friends. Because I was with my friends, even that horrid dance wasn't a completely irredeemable experience.

Real friends make fun, not activities. Word.

I don't even think that makes sense. What I'm trying to say is good friends make things fun. Real fun.

Ok. The end. This gypsy is out.