I’ve had this netbook a little over three months, but you’d think it was more like three days.

Because.

I still have the plastic covering over the screen.

What the hell!

Is this a metaphor for my life?

Why is it that I’m so afraid to use things? As in really use them.  Instead I want to keep them shiny and brand new. Preserved.

Or at least like new as much as possible.

I suppose it goes back to my childhood.

Who else out there had the standard school clothes and play clothes? School shoes, play shoes?

I’ve always taken care of the things that I care about.

Okay, so maybe it’s more that I was scared into taking care of the things I loved.

Maman had a thing about cleanliness and orderliness. Which, in the midst three hell raising kids, I totally get.

It was an unspoken agreement that you just didn’t get your stuff dirty, even if you were decked out in play attire — I learned this lesson when I returned home from the creek covered in mud one afternoon.

Much to the horror of Maman. Yeah. Didn’t go over too well.

There is one Sunday fall afternoon I particularly remember.

Dara {childhood bff} and I decided to go walking in the woods.

I’m sure this was probably my brilliant idea. I was quite the tomboy adventurer.

What else could I have been with two rough and tumble boys ahead of me? I’m sure Maman wondered if she’d ever have an actual daughter. One who wasn’t covered in mud and playing war games with guns.

The only problem was: I had on my new {Hot} Pink Converse High Tops.

Nevertheless, I navigated my way through mud and dirt in those beloved shoes.

Trying hard not to get a single mark on them. I knew Maman would not be happy with me.

The first thing I did when we finally made it back to Dara’s?

Frantically, or as frantically as a 10 year old can get, cleaned my shoes off in her kitchen sink.

Her mom didn’t really think that was such a hot idea. Operations were suspended and thus moved to the outside faucet.

It wasn’t just shoes I tried to keep perfect.

My barbies, too. Make that any dolls. I couldn’t stand when I’d play with other girls whose dolls had ratty hair and torn clothes.

Yeah, pretty horrifying for me, as I’d spend my whole time attempting to de-knot hair with mini plastic brushes that usually had a minimum of four bristles that would break off.

I had this same obsession with books, as well. I couldn’t stand other kids who bent pages, had torn covers.

I didn’t get it. I still don’t.

You borrow a book from me and it looks like I just bought it. Post Barnes & Noble smell and all.

And coloring?

Don’t even get me going on coloring books and pages. Those classmates who didn’t give a flying f and colored all over the place? Drove me insane.

Just the mere sight of that was almost too much to take in. It won’t surprise you that if I thought I “messed” up, I’d have to start all over.

Today I thought maybe I’ve taken too good of care of things, that some part of me is afraid to use the things I love that are meant for just that — use.

Over and over again.

My Jackie O Gucci bag looked brand new for two years, until I realized that worn leather is always in, not out.

I wonder if this could be a reflection of something internally for me?

So. I’ve decided to stop questioning and just go for it.

Throw off the bow lines, or in my case, rip off that piece of plastic and start getting a little messy.

Color outside the lines, and be okay that it’s outside, not caught up in how something is “supposed” to look and look “right”.

Instead.

I’ll take it as a good sign that life, my life, is being fully lived.