Yesterday, I was at my ditheriest ever and as a consequence, ended up with blogging problems. I am over it. For the time being, I'll be posting here at Blogger while minds more pliable than mine figure out if Wonderland is just wasteland or not.
Early yesterday morning I was sitting outside drinking coffee when I saw something that looked both familiar and strange. I love a dichotomy, so I took a mental picture---my camera being elsewhere---and pushed it to the back of my mind for further exploration.
Later, I did explore. What I saw was a man walking along the sidewalk, dressed for office work and both his hands were free, and he wasn't wearing a backpack or a messenger bag. Think back. Men used to do that. They put their wallets in their back pockets and hit the road to wherever they were going. That's where the familiar/unfamiliar thing came in.
I know what's in my bag when I go out. Always a book, wallet or credit and debit cards, one of the handkerchiefs I bought for my son years ago and (rescued from one of his moves), several tools and products designed to keep me from looking my real age, Godiva chocolate pearls and my keys. Sometimes I remember to take my phone. When I was working, I sometimes carried food and shoes with me. And maybe scarves. And gloves.
I obviously need a bag, or a purse (if you're so inclined),and I have a few to choose from. Yes, a few: big, small, with shoulder straps or not, of various patterns and sizes and degrees of sparkliness.
I use them joyfully, I use them with discretion and a gypsyish swagger. But what is in those backpacks, messenger bags and rucksacks that I see on the street all the time, get slammed with on the bus and run out of Starbucks to unite with their forgetful owners?
I think this is one of the things that will puzzle future archeologists when they dig urban sites. For now, I have to admit I'm going to watch for Mr NoStuff, striding along with both hands free.