Too much

The other night I had a dream where I had been watching the Titans(?) play from the comfort of a suite. Except I never actually saw them play — my dream self was way too short to access the viewing window; I just know I saw the team file in and out of the locker room — and it became quickly apparent when a dozen strangers filed into the box that this was some sort of double-header for which I had only been given suite access for game one. A game timeshare of sorts. So I went about gathering up my belongings so I could skedaddle. Except I started packing up my purse, but then bag after bag of personal belongings and just crap, random stuff I would never need at a football game. Piles of pencils and tiny paper goods and emory boards and knick-knacks, the kinds of things that populate an ancient desk drawer that has never had a good cleaning. I shoveled and shoveled as much as I could into tiny canvas tote bags. I felt everyone around me growing frustrated at my continued presence. I felt ashamed for having so much shit to shovel.