(She Called It a Valise)
My husband has this ancient, beat-up overnight case his mother gave him when he was a kid.
It’s ridiculously heavy, completely impractical, and, frankly, the ugliest piece of luggage I’ve ever seen.
She called it a valise, trying to give it a touch of class. It didn’t work.
I keep asking why he holds on to it. He says he can’t get rid of it. Thinks it’s some kind of family heirloom, though he’s not exactly sure where it came from.
My guess? His mom got tired of dragging it around but couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. Family legacy and all that.
If it was such a treasure, she should’ve kept it.
It was a strange gift for a child. Too heavy for a toddler. Too ugly for a teenager. Too small to hold anything useful as an adult.
And here’s the kicker: open it up, it’s empty—but try to pack it, and there’s no room.
I tell him, “She’s gone. No longer walking this earth. She won’t know if you let it go.” I definitely don’t want it passed down to our sons.
He says he’s not ready to part with the stupid bag. That’s what it’s always been called.
Though its full name is The I Must Be… Stupid, Ugly, Perfect, Fat (insert your own word here) suitcase.
We all have at least one.
You know the kind—those emotional carry-ons we’ve been dragging around for years.
Heavy, joyless, packed with old labels and expectations.
No room inside for creativity, curiosity, or hope.
Bags no thief would ever steal.
Bags our friends can’t, for the life of them, understand why we keep.
Bags so familiar, we forget we’re even carrying them.
My advice?
Throw the f@!king bag out already.*
