Metropolitan Sherpas

I have a spasm in my shoulder. My neck is burning, my biceps is cramping and my fingers are losing their grip on the double plastic bag from C-Town. And yet, it's just a normal day in lovely New York City.
But first, a bit of context.

Before I moved to the Big Apple I swear I took for granted the luxury of a car. Back in Mexico—in spite of three accidents and two break-ins to get my stereo and backpack stolen—I enjoyed the luxury of my two-door sedan. Magical tunes would come out of my radio (before it was stolen) and the streets were mine! But the best part of it all is having a home away from home right there in your car: from gym clothes to tampons, an extra sweater to an umbrella. If someone were to occupy the back seat, then I would dump everything in the trunk. End of story. Then I moved to Boston and endured public transportation for a couple of years; I was a poor student. But even then, I didn't worry about carrying groceries; my sister's car took care of that. There was no gym bag either because, poor as I was, my only workout consisted of Cindy Crawford videos and walks around the VA Hospital across the street. I roamed the streets practically load-free. Then I got a car for my new job and I enjoyed the luxuries that came with it. This didn't last much.

One day I moved to New York. I sold the car, my beloved Lucas. At first we took one of those funny looking carts to the supermarket. We would wheel the sucker up and down the street. Eventually, I found that the small items such as loose avocados and cans of tuna would fall right through the big holes in the bottom of the cart. I figured, "Carrying a little bit of stuff won't hurt anyone."

Right?

As weeks and months went by I found new ways to make myself carry more and more stuff across the city. First it was the compelling Ruiz-Zafón book in my bag—the full six-hundred-and-something version—because I refuse to buy a Kindle. Picky as I am, I inevitable found myself going to two or three supermarkets because they don't all carry the same items. Then I joined the gym and decided not to rent a permanent locker, to save a buck. Then it was the milk and eggs and 8 pounds of vegetables on my way home. The heels for that night out with friends or the sneakers for when the heels become too much to endure. The makeup bag for when the pretty face falls off at 4 p.m. One day I looked myself in the mirror and saw myself transformed into a metropolitan sherpa.

Metropolitan Sherpa [ˌmɛtrəˈpɒlɪtən] [ˈʃɜːpə]
n pl -pas, -pa
(Social Science / Peoples) a member of the New York City tribe, a person living in a fast-paced environment where carrying a bunch of useless stuff is required almost by law. Most Metropolitan Sherpas are female.

So you see, my friend. My whole body aches. My purse keeps getting bigger and I'll be damned if my plush winter coat doesn't hate me because it seems to slide any type of strap right off, causing this writer to hyperventilate with anguish. Ah! Because you should know that I refuse to rest my bags on these filthy city floors. I have classified my carry-on items into "Floor free" and "Filthy". It's not easy to deal with the logistics on a day-to-day basis.
I guess I just need a little bit of acknowledgment from other fellow sherpas, for I KNOW I'm not alone. I love this city to death but I'll probably grow into a Quasimodo-looking senior. I will tell my grandchildren that Nana went to the gym diligently, read the best pages of literature during her commute and was always ready for when the rain decided to come down and ruin her makeup.

I rest my case (on my lap, the floor is grimy).

Artist: Ward Sutton (who captures the essence of this piece)