Deep Down
I rummage in my bag for a pen. The employee waiting
for my signature looks furiously at me under her reading glasses. I get more
nervous and it takes me longer to find the pen when I think about how many
pairs of eyes behind me are staring indignantly at me.
Oops… this is red, the one I use to correct students’
papers. Now I have to delve deeper into the bag to find a blue one. The fidgety
steps behind me in the queue sound like war drums. Sooner than I expect, I will
hear words darting at the back of my head like arrows. I swear to myself that the moment I get home
I will turn my big fat bag upside down on the floor and throw away all the
items that crowd it and make any attempt to find anything a nightmare.
As I walk home, the strap of the bag cuts deep into my
aching shoulder. I remember my mother complaining: “You took all your books to
school when you were young. I tried to convince you to leave the ones you don’t
use every day but you always insisted.” Having all my books and notebooks made
me feel secure then. I retained that habit when I got older. The things I loved
made me feel safe and I kept them close: my favorite books,
the fountain pen my uncle gave me, the gold chain my father gave me when
I was twelve, the huge fur coat my husband bought me in America and piles and
piles of things that fill the rooms of my house . My handbag is no exception. I
have surrounded myself with memory-infused baggage and carried it around with
me. I have always felt safer knowing I have everything I need at hand. With
years’ worth of accumulated stuff, I feel heavier, shackled and entangled in a
web from the past and now is the time to get rid of the extras. I need to live
lighter, feel lighter. I will start with my handbag.
I open the door, throw the hot keys and my sun glasses
on the coffee table and decide to skip the shower until I take care of the
bag. Now that is one brave decision and
I might as well reward myself with a cup of Earl Grey tea to push me through
this hard job. My uncle loved Earl Grey, too. The kettle clicks indicating the
water has boiled and wakes me from my thoughts. When was the last time I
emptied the contents of my bag? I fail to remember. When I want to change bags
I usually take everything from one bag and stuff it all into another. I choose
the big ones that won’t revolt against the volume and the weight of my
stuff. When was the last time I
de-cluttered my messy life? Five years ago when I moved into the new apartment?
I don’t remember getting rid of things back then; I only came up with new ways
to store them.
One step at a time. Take it easy, nice and slow. I
encourage myself, knowing that it will not be easy to part with my things. My
things. Parts of who I am, just like the
five extra kilos I keep within and refuse to let go of. I will have some fun doing that, too. No, no,
no. Not the diet. That will come later.
It is only a simple task of cleaning up a cluttered bag, I assure my anxious
self. It will be like a game: I will sit in the middle of the big sofa with the
bag on my lap, just like a new-born. I
will put the things I want to keep on my right. Everything else will go on the
left; even if it is used occasionally it will go in the trash. I take the last
sip of Earl Grey and touch my aching right shoulder to push my hesitant self
forward. From now on I won’t have to carry a heavy bag. Moreover, I will get
rid of the huge sack-like bags. I will get out my pretty, medium-sized bags and
start using them. I will change bags every few days instead of hanging on to a
black one that goes with all my outfits. If I don’t use those bags I will have
to get rid of them, too. That would be a fit punishment.
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