Trapped in a Box

If only the headline were a metaphor.

I may have mentioned the only things I’m taking to Mexico are shoes, clothes, purses, skin care products, and dogs. That doesn’t seem like much but I have quite the stockpile and I drive a Jeep rather than a Suburban. I decided to buy a cargo box for the roof to carry the lighter items so the puppers have more room to stretch out during our trek down to Baja. The box I chose is cavernous and one of the reviews actually showed a grown-ass man fully inside of it for scale.

As is often the case, assembly was a bit tricky. The hinges for this box are at the front so marrying the top and bottom was awkward, given that this thing is 57 inches long. I’m only 61 inches long, ya know? I was able to maneuver the pieces so the hinges lined up but there was a clip that needed to go into a hole right there at the very front to keep the hinges from separating. So that meant I had to climb inside the black plastic box, hold the back of the box up so I could see what I was doing, and also attach this clip with my very sweaty fingers…and a 61-inch wingspan.

Unfortunately, my t-shirt got caught on the lock at the back of the box and I was stuck. I’m not severely claustrophobic but being physically trapped in a black plastic box was a bit alarming. The lock caught my shirt near my left shoulder so I had very little mobility and nearly dislocated my shoulder getting unstuck. I also hyper-extended my dumb thumb. As I was struggling with all of this I was just thinking to myself, “Suffocated in a plastic cargo box…what a fucking way to go.”

Anyway, the goddamned thing is together and ready to mount to the roof rack. I’m just waiting for my surfboard to deliver and I’ll be all set.

I will get through this. *insert ALL of the eyerolls here*