Baggage Check

"Don't waste yourself in rejection, nor bark against the bad, but chant the beauty of the good." Ralph Waldo Emerson

I love a good quote, literary, movie or otherwise. I added the above one to my page because they seem like words to live by. Because, it seems like the things I remember, the things that hold on, are those small rejections from the past. Why don't I remember when former boyfriends and dates told me I was beautiful or smart or funny? Why do I bother to recall, usually when least I want to, not being good enough or pretty enough for someone who doesn't matter anymore?

Everybody brings a little baggage to a new relationship, even when they think they don't. When I arrived in my current relationship, I showed up a little (or maybe a lot) jaded by my interactions with previous, less than deserving men. But I was pretty sure I'd dealt with all the really important issues. I thought the real baggage had been checked at the gate.

This delusion lasted right up until our first discussion about the future. I could barely bring myself to talk about it, even theoretically. Why? "I'm afraid after you've really thought about it, you'll freak out and break up with me." The reply reassured me, and I had to remind myself, "He is not any of those other guys." But it wasn't the last time I had to shove the bulging suitcase closed.

Unprovoked insecurities still show up at the door unannounced, like the luggage you'd given up as lost only to find out it was just misdirected. I find myself wondering how I compare with past girlfriends (or any of a million faceless, nameless women who might want to replace me): am I prettier, skinnier, smarter, sexier, more creative, a better cook, more successful, more athletic...the list goes on and on and gets more absurd.

And, for every ridiculous question that pops into my head, I can remember the guy who dumped me for his ex, the cheater, the guy who got random calls at 3:00 am from girls I didn't know, the one who made fun of a haircut or looked at my thighs in disgust. Somewhere along the line, I internalized those comments and actions and began, on some subconscious level, to believe they were right. If I wasn't the best, I wouldn't be loved, and he wouldn't stick around.

And then I met someone who turned all those subconscious ideas upside down. I could hardly believe it. "What, you like my hips?" "You don't want to keep a few girls on the side, waiting for me to screw up?" There were millions of other little epiphanies like those, things any rational person should already know. I guess I never realized how much other people had messed with my head until I met someone who didn't.

He is amazing, and I want to throw out all that baggage once and for all. If I never think about a long-past shitty moment again, it would be fine by me. However, those images pop into my mind far less often than they used to. So, I'm thinking that the longer two people build trust and security between them, the quieter the negative memories become, until one day maybe they cease to exist all together. I want to empty the bag and treat this relationship like the brand-new experience it is.

Metamorphosis

The fact that life moves almost imperceptibly like the revolving top of the Millenium hotel makes the times when life speeds up all the more dramatic. I used to feel like the people in my life and I were orbiting each other, gently floating closer and farther away, not quite randomly but with no particular destination in mind. Lately I've realized the motion was acutally metamorphosis. All of us, at once, in our own ways, becoming something other than we were.

A Staring Problem

"It's not nice to stare at people" is something I heard more than once as a child. Maybe part of it comes from being a writer, but I'm a people-watcher from way back. Put me in a high traffic area, and I can entertain myself for hours studying the characters passing by. Beautiful, unfortunate looking, it's all the same to me. I love to look at the way their faces fit together, their wardrobe choices, mannerisms, expressions. In my head, I make up stories about them, who they are, and where they might be going.

New places especially bring this out in me. A couple of weeks ago, I spent a few days in Chicago visiting my brother. We took the L or walked everywhere, and during those times, I saw some of the most interesting people. Ordinarily, words are my preferred artistic medium, but I found myself wishing I had a camera to capture some of these unique images. A big camera, of course, so I could pass for a photo journalist, instead of some weirdo taking pictures of strangers.

There's something compelling about photography. If I describe the scenes and characters for you, you will (hopefully) have a vivid mental image of what I've described, but you only get to see as much as I've described. And unless my description is carefully sterile and objective, the way I choose to describe the scene will affect what you see. With a photo, there's the possibility for you to imagine your own version of the unspoken narrative.

That said, I don't know the first thing about photography. I'm not even sure I have the desire to learn. So here's my word photo album from the last few weeks.

A mylar balloon bouquet tangled in the powerlines high above the hub bub of Dressel's patio on Saturday night, sparkling in the street lights against the backdrop of the late night sky.

A young mother in a cool white ankle-length skirt,walking down Halsted on the way to the corner bus stop, holding the hand of a dark-haired toddler dragging a golden teddy bear by one hand along the cement.

A couple waiting for the L, late on a humid Saturday night, facing each other, her arms around his neck. Both were clad entirely in black leather outfits and accessories that made me think of dungeons and whips. Her face looked too old for a mini dress and platform thigh-high boots. They didn't seem to notice the temperature or anyone else on the platform.

A woman in her mid-thirties, in khaki pants, white t-shirt, and flip flops, slouching in her seat on the train, talking loudly on her Blackberry. "No, she reached over and grabbed what she thought was a bottle of water and took a big gulp and spewed it out all over the place. Yeah, it was tequila....Lynard Skynard? Who's he? Yeah, I'd go to that show."

Some of the best people sightings were on the roof of some friends' apartment building. The surrounding structures towered on three sides of the roof-top deck. The thousands of uncurtained windows rising up around me were like so many movie screens. A middle aged woman was making a late night pasta dinner with red sauce and fresh garlic. A group of teenagers played what must have been Wii tennis (although I couldn't see their televisions, only their movements). From behind a shade, one shadow press another against the glass. A cat stared back down at me from another window. The stars barely glistened past the electric lights and haze.

It's a good thing I don't live in a high rise.