When I moved out of New Hampshire, I packed one suitcase thinking I'd be at my parents' house for a couple weeks. The rest of my things went on a truck that was intended to be shipped to Arizona, but instead spent several months in New Jersey with a company that changes the deal once they take your things and rarely answers phone calls.
(If ever contracting a move cross-country, pay the extra couple hundred buck for the well-known company. That's what I did on the last move, and the peace of mind was worth it.)
So my stuff was supposed to arrive by Tuesday. It's Wednesday.
There are many reasons I hope to see my stuff again. My photo albums. My great-grandmother's dresser. My big computer with all my files. My paintings- the ones that I painted that are of no value to anyone but me.
My stuff is better than other people's stuff because it is mine. It is all my style. Even the stuff that isn't really my style anymore, because it belongs to me, it is. The clothes all fit me perfectly. Getting my stuff back is better than Christmas because none of it has to be given false praise and returned to the store. It is all perfect just the way it is.
And I want it back.