Anne Nahm

Dear Beautiful Coach Bag of My Youth,

When we met, we were both young, hip and beautiful. You carried my cigarettes, my lighter, my lipstick, and my birth control. I carried you. Oh happy days of wine and roses! How many nights did I use you as a pillow when I fell asleep on the ride home from some wild party? How many classes did you attend with me over the years? Hell, you could probably qualify for a bachelors or something.

Over the years, I have been careful with you, because I loved you so. I did not set you on the bathroom floor even once. Not even that time in Vegas when I thought I was going to donate a sphincter or two to the Golden Nugget Lobby Restroom. Even then, precious, I balanced you on the tank. And in return, you have never once dumped all my shit out on the floor, no matter how casually I threw you into a nearby chair.

But time is a cruel mistress, and with her passing, we have both gotten scuffed up and blown out of our original shape.

Letting you go is like kicking a sweet old dog that’s only been good to me. But the time has come. Mostly because in your senility, you’ve gotten a bit dangerous.

See? When I load you up with a soda or bottled water (as I need to do in order to get through the day with my wiener kids and not die of breastfeeding induced exhaustion), you have the habit of becoming a loose cannon. You sit on my shoulder until I bend down to pick up the wee one. Then you swing down and try to clobber her. Hey, I can relate. Some days I’d like to clobber her too. But I control myself.

But Anne, you say. Can’t you see you need me? Look at me! I hold your soda. Your keys. That envelope has the three-year-old’s hair clippings from her very first haircut. And by the way, Anne? That haircut was three weeks ago. Could you clean me the hell out?

When your little brats have a runny nose? Or pick up a piece of dog-poop with bubblegum in it and also a cigarette butt? You’ll wish you had that half-used Kleenex pack and the tiny bottle of Purex I carry day and night. And also? What the hell is this crumpled 1 dollar bill you leave here? I’m not a stripper you know. And even if I was, this area wouldn’t be my g-string.

And since this is a long term relationship, I could get a little hot under the collar. I’d say, yeah, you’ve held me together. But let’s not pretend I’m the only one to blame. It wasn’t too long ago that you decided all this crap I leave at the bottom of you?

You’d glom it all together with a stray piece of bubble gum that “mysteriously” got unwrapped. I’ve been feeding parking meters all over town for the past month with one big glob of bubble-change that sticks to your bottom. It’s gross. You never would have pulled that shit when we were young.

But then we would both get a hold of ourselves.

I’d say, but let’s not fight love. Let’s not fight. The truth is that we need some time apart. It’s not you. It’s just that between the kid, the baby, the diaper bag and the car-seat, I’ve got to downsize.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m getting a wallet.

If it makes you feel any better, it will be cheap and it will mean nothing to me. I’ll use it until it’s broken and then I’ll throw it away.

Not like you.
You get to go into the back of my closet with all my skinny clothes.

Anne