I didn’t know it had been three weeks since I got out of bed. I didn’t know I wasn’t eating. Who needs a shower when you have nowhere to go?
My behavior led to a meeting with a Dr. Schueler, who had a lovely parting gift in the form of antidepressants. I didn’t want to take them. I’m strong. I’m an accomplished musician with a world-renowned orchestra. I have a boyfriend, a happy family and the world at my fingertips.
At least, I did.
Not anymore.
So I took the damn pills and spent the next three months numb. So numb that I was void of myself. I hated taking them but only did so I didn’t have to see the look in my family’s eyes. The one that said they can’t move on until I do.
Two months ago, I told Dr. Schueler I didn’t want the pills anymore. I wanted to do this on my own. She didn’t think it was a good idea but I stopped them anyway. I’ve been doing really well for the last eight weeks. It drives me insane that Leah felt the need to bring them with her.
She probably did it for Mom.
When I hear Leah hang up, I grab the sun block and walk it into the bedroom, motioning for Leah to apply some. She doesn’t even mention she was on the phone with our mom, and I don’t bring it up.
Turning to the wardrobe, I pick out a pair of white shorts and a green tank top, opting for comfort over style. I slide on my Sperry Top-Siders and head out the door.
“You are not wearing a fanny pack!” Leah chides as soon as I step outside.
“Don’t knock it. I have our passports, cash, and travelers checks in here. No one is getting away with our stuff.” I pat down the bag holstered around my waist to make sure everything is secure.
“There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t know where to start.” Leah’s arms flail about her body in mock exaggeration. Or maybe she’s being serious?
“What’s wrong with my bag?”
“Uh, everything?” She holds up a finger. “Numero uno, you are wearing a fanny pack.” She stretches out the words fanny and pack as if I don’t understand English and need to hear her diction perfectly. “Those are for tourists at Disney World and marathon runners. Are you riding the teacups or running twenty-six miles today? No. So take it off.”
“It’s practical and keeps all our stuff safe.” It also happens to be super cute. It’s gray with white chevron stripes. It’s the most adorable fanny pack ever. If it were Gucci Leah probably wouldn’t mind. Maybe if I got a Gucci one—
“Numero dos, that’s what a safe is for. Why are you taking all of our valuables with us?” Her hands are still in front of her body making dramatic gestures. I think talking to the Italians last night rubbed off on her.
“It’s due, not dos,” I say.
Leah just taps her foot and waits for an answer.
“I am not leaving our money in some chintzy safe where anyone can walk out with it. Been there done that.” Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice . . . you know how it goes. “If you want to get stranded in a foreign country with no way to get home, be my guest.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “Fine. Whatever. Take the stuff. Just leave that horrible pack in the room.” She concedes.
Not wanting to cause a fight, I back up into the room and grab my shoulder bag, removing all the items from the fanny pack and inserting them into the new bag. It won’t be as comfortable but it will be more stylish. I shouldn’t worry. By midweek, Leah won’t care what I’m carrying her stuff in. She doesn’t carry a bag at all.
Like Leah promised, after some espresso and a croissant, paired with some blood orange juice, my hangover is a dismal headache.