For better or worse, my reputation precedes me

I think I'm moved in to my apartment ... although from this distance, and with my parents not answering their cell phones, it's hard to know whether they have successfully shephereded my several dozen boxes, baskets, crates, and odd-shaped items up those three flights of stairs. If it's done, I suspect it wasn't done alone, thanks to a friend on the ground who called a few other friends who agreed to lend a hand. If it's not, well, I'm noting the time for use in my "Parents of the Year" nomination.

People tell me the fun thing about moving to a new place and being introduced to a whole new crew is that you get to decide what parts of yourself to bring along and carefully unpack. So from this California kitchen table, I am fretting over what my new neighbors might have already concluded about me based on my packing job, my possessions, and my progenitors. Were all those half-filled journals safely stowed, or are pages of secret rants blowing around Hyde Park? Which sweaters sit at the top of the crate, the stylish ones or I-could-teach-high-school-in-this ones? Which parent do I most resemble these days?

Looking over some course possibilities earlier today, I kept thinking that no matter what I wind up with, it will be an interesting semester. I guess I just need something to worry about!