My Rebellious Suitcase

My suitcase upon my bed looks as if it has quite exploded.

I know the usual pattern of travel consists of a rather opposite effect, but as my suitcase has always been rebellious and quite determined to do things in the most ridiculous manner possible, it has simply refused to be neatly packed until it finds the perfect moment to do so. That being said, I shall venture to declare, mystically, that I don't think there will ever be a perfect time for that suit case to be packed. It is very happy to be unpacked. All my treasures--my purple zebra shirt, my bags of bead purchases, a very old edition of A Tale of Two Cities--all these lovely things really do not want to return to Arkansas. They like it very much here.

And as obstinate and high-minded as I most days decide to be, it would be barbaric and downright sinful to be so callous toward the feelings of my suitcase.

However, as I am a logical and rational sort of person nearly half a day during a blue moon, I will see that a paramount problem lay before me. The suitcase must go back to Arkansas. It must face the tasks and responsibilities which have been put upon it. It must guard my under the bed. (For such a place being so dark and dusty, I would probably have a fit of terror each night if it wasn't for my suitcase protecting me.

So I shall try to convince my suitcase, that in returning and being honorable and brave, it will be worthy of such high esteem and phenomenal respect which most suitcases only dream of achieving.

I too shall try to console myself. Because after I patiently care for my suitcase and wait for a happy mood to come to him, I will be left alone with my own anxiety about returning. The more I leave, the more I realize how much I want to just come home. I am not ready to face the long nights, the flutters in my chest of exhaustion, the endless mood storms of people, the demanding students, the floor that is never clean enough, the food that is never good enough...

I sigh just thinking about it.

But, apprehension of a fear is usually never as fearful as the actual thing itself. As soon as I get past the first few days, I know I shall be fine. I shall even be comfortable and happy, enjoying my free hours to read or write or make jewelry and drink coffee. It couldn't be a happier situation.

So I shall not worry my suitcase about such things. He has enough on his mind. Don't tell him I told you, but he is extremely nervous about going through the baggage check. He did beautifully last time, but did complain that his left wheel almost got ripped off in the conveyor belt...

He is also rather concerned that he will be sent to Ohio on accident. I simply smile and tell him it will all work out okay.

Oh the silly, silly things we worry about... =)