An email I sent to my sister this afternoon when I came back to work after my lunch break:

I should not have bought a pink gym bag.  It just draws attention to itself.  And to me.  And the fact that somehow I just don’t look like I should be carrying this bag.  I’m a fraud.  I’m carrying it from my car into here and thinking okay, I’m not tripping on a stick or anything, and suddenly the thing just slips off my shoulder and hits the ground.  Just like that.  I don’t what it is about my shoulder, but no bag wants to hang from it.  They all slide off.  My right shoulder is even higher than my left because of all the years of lifting it up so that whatever bag is hanging from it doesn’t fall.  This is why I bought a messenger bag or whatever they’re called…the largest in a long line of bags I can carry over my left shoulder and across my body, so the bag is actually over on the right…or in front like one of those purse things Scotsman wear over their kilts.  I bought it so my right shoulder wouldn’t eventually be level with my nose.  But then I thought, come on, I’m not in school any more.  I should have a bag that looks…adult and professional.  So I found one and I use it.  But it doesn’t stay put either.

I hate bags.  And they hate me.

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