%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |
The Grey Suitcase: My graduation from the grey suitcase to the black one. |
|
Several years back I stood in an airport line to pick up a reserved ticket. This was my second airplane trip in many years. Stoked, I could barely contain my excitement, I didn’t know quite what to expect. However, in the next ten minutes I noticed something that immediately separated me from an entire airport filled with people. I nearly dove into my bulging suitcase. I was devastated, but I was also in public. It seemed all eyes were on me. I returned the mother of glares that should have abashed, but it didn’t in the least. That’s when I pulled out the Internet copy of my airplane reservation and read it again. I stuck out like a boil on a witch’s snout. I was some kind of exchange student on Mars, misplaced. So, I did what any red-blooded American would do. Standing tall and rigid with my proud face on, I turned my thoughts to a stoic axiom: Never let them see you sweat. I pretended as if I were the only one in the queue, well, the mouthy tween a few rows over and myself. The judgmental crowd had to accept me, as a novelty, granted, but no more differently than a kid amongst midgets. I tromped along in traffic, totally besides myself. By now, only a few untrained people gawked. The drama was just getting started, but if I could make it through the line, I could hide out easily. The row inched forward and rather than trudging a few steps at a time, I allowed the line to advance significantly before taking up my next position. The idea was to draw attention away from me. After holding up it up three times, this turned out to be a bad idea. The catcalls of disapproval that ensued, was more than I could bear. It couldn’t get any worse. Eventually I rounded the corner and advanced to the next row. I reviewed my Internet ticket for the ten thousandth time, and opted to memorize the words. I had dropped my proud demeanor several rows back and settled into an apologetic smirk. As I advanced further in the queue, I found myself aligned with a bothered mother in the last row leading to the ticket booth. Two small children played at her feet, and her tween talked aloud to herself. I figured the mother was just as humiliated as I was, so I offered camaraderie through my smile. The woman did not smile back. She gazed fixedly at my person, as if I were some dated old-timer. My eyes dropped, and at that point, I memorized the small print of my ticket. The tween stopped talking; I could hear her mouth flap shut. She punched her mother as she glared at me, and asked, “Ma, what’s that?” I heard her wrist snap in the air as she pointed. The mother eyeballed me and said, “Oh, that’s an old fashioned suitcase from back in the day.” ******* That’s pretty much how I’ve been feeling about lugging around the grey suitcase icon for nearly 2 weeks. For some reason I couldn’t write. Now that I’ve finally posted my first journal entry, I realize that I was just lazy … I mean writing, rewriting and editing takes hours. Having jumped in, and based on my initial outline – I’ve got lots more to say. I want to thank my fellow inmates from the chat room for all the moral support patiently eked out of them between the hours of 2 – 7 AM earlier in the wee. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
