I came home from work one day months ago and saw my black "weekend" bag sitting in the middle of my apartment bedroom floor. I was instantaneosly annoyed by it just laying there. It was laughing at me in a that scary cartoon voice, "you'll never get rid of me!!!!" ....I threw it across the room. That's the bag I pack my cloths into take to O's apartment. It's become apart of me- like an extention of my purse. 3-4 times a week I pack and repack my cloths, massacra, deodorant, book, lunch for the next day, phone charger, netflix movies, and National Geographic magazine. That was the day I decided I never wanted to pack a bag again.
I remember when packing a bag was cool. It was a symbol of youth, freedom, spontanatiety. Flying by the seat of my pants! "Let's do one more shot! I don't need to drive back to Queens, I packed a bag!". "No, I don't need to go home after work, I packed a bag!" "Yes O, I'll come back over for dinner later....I packed a bag."
Years later, that black bag came to represent all that I hate: being unsettled, confusion, and uncertainty. I let O know the significance of that black bag months ago. I did a little pre-D Day digging on one particular day. There was an interesting exchange of offers, compromises, and flat out surrenders. Why couldn't this man just want the same things I wanted? Why couldn't he see that giving me a drawer, perhaps, dare I say 2 drawers, would have been the greatest gift. It was useless, we were speaking two different languages. That conversation ended in the exact same place it started......in a bag.
