Watch What You’re Calling Baggage

I spritzed my neck and wrists with the sweet smelling perfume, Paris. My favorite. I hurriedly applied my lipstick. Planted Mommy kisses on the back of my childrens hands. Told my ex-husband, who was my free babysitter that night that I wouldn’t be out too late. And I flew out of the door.

I was meeting a couple of friends at Champs. Back when it first opened in my area, it was a fun and crowded place to hang out. The perfect place to meet up for a quick couple of drinks.

I parked Franklin, my green Honda Civic that was totaled a few months later. Checked my lipstick to make sure it was still on after I had just blotted it on my children.

I walked in. Looked around. Spotted my friends sitting at the bar, already drinking and smoking cigarettes without me. I noticed they were sitting next to a couple of really nice looking gentlemen. It always makes for a more interesting evening that way.

I took the seat they had saved for me. It was next to a tall, very good looking guy. I smiled at him as I sat down. He did the look over. You know, the up and down to check me out. I guess he approved of what he saw…he smiled back.

Somehow. The group of my friends and the group of his friends ended up in conversation. Joking around. Flirting.

The male group, all single. The female group. All married except for me. I was engaged but didn’t wear a ring. Simply because I wasn’t given one.

The handsome guy didn’t ask. I didn’t mention it. We chatted.

Somehow, it came up that I was divorced with kids. He asked the typical questions. How long were you married, why did you divorce type crap. I answered. We talked a lot about him. I pretended to be interested.

He ordered dessert. I ate the whipped cream from it. He watched, so obviously turned on by a woman who loves good whipped cream and isn’t afraid to show it.

Suddenly. Unprovoked and out of nowhere. Like he was trying to convince himself. He announced to me that he wouldn’t date me. He doesn’t date women with baggage. Even though he finds me very attractive.

Baggage?!

He was referring to MY children. As though they were a piece of carry on luggage or a cheap imitation designer bag. The word was said like it was nothing more than a explicative. A curse. A spit on the floor.

Me? I got pissed. For so many different reasons.

After I wiped the dessert from my lips and the shocked expression off my face, I explained to him that I wasn’t in the least bit interested in dating him. I think there may have even been a snort or a huh in there. I was getting married in July, which was one of the main reasons I would not have dated him. The minor reasons being that he was too old for me as I was 31 and he was…gasp…in his 40’s. And besides, anyone who would think of my children as baggage would never deserve time with us anyway.

We continued to chat for another couple of minutes while I polished off his whipped cream and ate some of the ice cream on his plate. Then, I thanked him. Offered to fix him up with my soon to be sister-in-law. And turned my back on him.

That evening shouldn’t have been very memorable. It was quite boring. I returned home earlier than expected. My ex was very pleased considering that, normally, when he would sit I’d stay out until the buttcrack of dawn. I didn’t have to pay him. So why not? Live it up, right?! You’re only young once.

But. For some reason. This night stayed with me. That part of the conversation with that ass remained etched in my mind. Because never. EVER. Had anyone referred to MY children. Part of my body. My heart. As baggage. Before that or even after.

The men I had dated, prior to meeting my now husband, many of them didn’t have children of their own. Not one of those relationships ever broke up because of the fact I had my own children. They just didn’t work out because of our dynamics.

Children are not baggage.

They are innocent bystanders along for the joyride that their parents take them on. Only sometimes, it’s without the joy.

My past relationships. Past friendships. Past entire life.

All that? Baggage?

I think that stupid expression is so misguided, wrong and hurtful.

Because really?

It would be me that’s the baggage.

I’m the receptacle for any and all the ramifications of the choices that I made.

The past, the kids, everything that goes along with me?

That is what I carelessly toss inside to be carried and jiggled around on my life’s journey.

And I may not have treated my baggage…myself…with the type of respect I deserved.

But I took really good care of that precious cargo stored within.

I ended up marrying a nice big piece of luggage with a whole lotta crap shoved inside.

Between him and me…

Good thing we found a place with lots of storage.

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