sometimes, like when I'm just getting to know a guy, I feel like I have all of these tricks up my sleeves, or hidden non-fun surprises. I feel like I have to time what I say and disseminate the information just so, or I'll end up flubbing the punch line.
and it gets a little frustrating.
I am a fun girl. And a cute girl. And a nice and smart and silly and easy-going and high-maintenance and giving and demanding and hilarious and a good sport and moody. I've got lots of things going for me, and a usual dose of the bad, but nothing too extreme.
until you see my past.
It's, ah, let's say checkered. Nothing heinous, no convictions for possession of coke or murder or felony or grand theft auto, nothing criminal or horribly immoral per se, but certainly it raises a few red flags for Mr. I've-Just-Started-Dating-You. Sometimes I get all worked up about confessing my reality. I try to be up-front and honest without overwhelming the guy. But sometimes I feel like perhaps I'll just live like a recluse and not date so I don't have to share my war stories with anyone. Because it's uncomfortable, I feel like it casts me in a rather poor light and because I have FAAAR fewer concerns about it than people hearing it ex-post-husbando. because I've dealt with, moved on, gotten the hell out of dodge. and because and there are always the questions. the damn questions.
I feel like I'm getting better. Like I upgraded my suitcase to one with wheels and a retractable handle instead of the old fashioned kind--y'know, like the ones you had as a little girl, or those turquoise pleather affairs that seemed to be held together with duct tape? My suitcase no longer throws me off kilter, it's just something I bring with me. My load feels lighter and there's less friction and disarray, but it's still there.
maybe some day I'll get it down to a duffel bag. Or a backpack. Or a messenger bag. Or maybe even a clutch. that would be a really big achievement in my eyes--to whittle away my pile-o-past and condense it into the part that really matters, and the part that I'd want to keep because it's taught me about myself. I don't think I'll ever get rid of it entirely--or if I do, I'm not sure it will matter anymore.
see, the thing is...
baggage isn't cute.
even if it's louis vuitton.
and even if you carry your baggage in a birkin bag, it's still baggage.
it is what it is.
and I'm a card (or cart?) carrying member of the "I've got baggage" club. I'm not the founder nor the President, but I think I'm at the very least a Member at Large.
so, question: do you think I could just check my baggage with a skycap and pick it up at the end of the line? I've only got one piece and I think it's under the weight limit...