Sci-fi geeks might think that's the meaning of life (and it is), but it's also the exact number of dresses and skirts I was able to hang from the handles in the back seat of my car.
I considered it a sign.
Packing for me is ceremonial, cleansing, and cathartic. Each time I move, I take less. After filling a cottage with furniture and copious mementos (origami birds, pictures of friends, antique salt shakers, etc. etc.) I can hardly believe my life can now fit into a few suitcases and some hanging clothes in the back of my Prius.
Am I going in reverse? Who does that?
I once thought I had my life together - I was careful, I was secure, I had my house in order... but it didn't take very long to realize I was spinning my tires. I decided enough was enough - I loaded my car and I drove 9 hours.
The kindness of strangers and new friends has brought me to my knees.
It seems the general motivation is either "I'm helping you because when I first came to DC a stranger helped me and I know how far a little effort goes" or "I'm helping you because when I first came to DC nobody helped me and I know how badly I could've used it."
Therefore, I am staying in the lovely guest room of a friend and we're about to paint our nails and talk about tomorrow's job hunting adventures.