Blame it on a hot pink Hallmark envelope.
Upper flap torn haphazardly with little crinkly rips along the edges, crisp white card tucked right inside that flap, and neat bubbly letters curving on the outside.
And of course, that unmistakable Hallmark trademark stamp. You know, the one that kinda looks like it's the same as the Disney font.
No, this is not the jumping point to a tumbling avalanche of sentimental memories. Definitely not a mention of past or present birthday cards of my own or personalized Valentine's Day cards (though don't put it past me that I won't delve into some of those juicy stories sooner or later).
As it turns out, I had no relation whatsoever to the a) people who had written the card or b) the person to whom the card was addressed.
In this case, to an "Anna." As the loopy (and pretty darn legible) cursive seemed to proudly proclaim.
Now, I'm as much of a handwriting-interpreter as the next person (as in, not a professional one by any means) but I could tell that the letter writer(s) had spent a sufficient amount of time putting this card together. Squinting at the lines that connected the capital 'A' to the lower-case 'n' in the single, centered addressee line, I could somehow tell that the hand had carefully guided the pen to create the even effect. Plus, the writer(s) had pressed really hard. They'd made the pen indentations and everything.
So, as I was studying this card to which I had absolutely no relation, I was transfixed.
And here I was at the San Francisco Main Library, in downtown, a block or so away from City Hall's jeweled dome. (Which was going to be lit up in exactly one hour, around the time that the sun was set to, well, set.) Kneeling along the lower shelves of the contemporary fiction (namely chick lit) section, I had been thumbing through the pages of one of the hardcovers (the title, the subject matter, and the thematic elements all slip my mind now, as they became quickly overshadowed by the discovery of this hot pink card) when the card had presented itself. Like a pop-up in a pop-up book.
One glance and I couldn't believe it.
And it wasn't just the neat curlicued writing or the "we love you, from mom and dad" scribbled inside the card. And it wasn't the baby picture in the front flap, inserted right before the Polaroid snapshot of a teenage girl with blue eyeliner and dark wavy hair.
It was the thought of the carelessness that had set off the chain of events that had led the card right into my hands. Jumping to conclusions, I immediately decided that this "Anna" had been using the card as a bookmark. That she had left it in the book. (Only about one-third of the way, in, too.) And then returned it. Dropped it into one of those bins without even so much as a second riffling through the pages to make sure she hadn't left any personal items inside. Like, oh, a sentimental birthday card that her parents had painstakingly crafted with unearthed baby pictures.
I couldn't believe how different this "Anna" and I were. Call me a pack rat, call me a junk-junkie, call me overly and absolutely sentimentally attached to things, but I always flip through my library books before returning them. I keep those little receipts that they print out with the due dates for the items. You know, the ones that they started coming out with once librarians complained about getting carpal tunnel from those old-school due date stamps. (The ones that make the awesome thump-y sound when they're used.) I keep them even though I totally subscribe to the library's email notifications to update me whenever a book is nearing its due date.
Just like I keep nearly every fortune slip from every fortune cookie that I've ever devoured from every Chinese take-out place or restaurant that I've ever frequented. (The habit started when I was in elementary school and cootie catchers were so in. I wanted to amass a grand collection of fortune cookie slips and use those as the fortunes for my handmade cootie catchers. I wanted legit cootie catchers. None of that 'you will bump into your crush today' schmuck. Not that I have anything against anyone else's carefully-crafted homemade cootie catchers.) The slips tend to turn up in my jeans pockets or jacket pockets whenever I check my clothes before putting them in the wash. They spill over my desk, my bookshelf, and some are even neatly tucked in with my display of stuffed animals. Some serve as bookmarks. Ones that I eventually stumble across by accident. And even though they range from advice to motivational phrases (sometimes not quite falling into that specific 'fortune' category), I still keep them.
Just like I keep my receipts even though I don't do my taxes. (Not that I need to or anything. I'm not really on a steady payroll, currently. And do you need your receipts to do your taxes, even?)
And I keep the tags and size stickers from my clothes even though there is no way that I would even be able to return the items after having cut the tags off.
I'm attached to my things. I'm attached to tangible items, that would seem unnecessary and useless to the majority of the general population. In fact, items that other people would call "trash."
But, then again, maybe that saying that juxtaposes--or alchemizes--trash into treasure might just apply for me. Except I'd have to change it. So, my stuff that someone else would think of as trash is actually totally something I would treasure. My own trash is actually equivalent to something valuable for me. And maybe that's why this "Anna" left her hot pink Hallmark card in the book. Maybe she had good intentions. Maybe she thought she would grant someone else the opportunity to unearth treasure from her trash. (Although again, anything by Hallmark is never trash in my book. Not that I'm into corporations or major franchises or anything like that. I support good ole Mom & Pop shops as much as the next person.) Perhaps she thought it would cheer someone else up, seeing a neon birthday card unexpectedly pop out of a book.
Maybe she was on a mission akin to the character in "Message in a Bottle." (More on Nicholas Sparks, later.) She may have hoped some heartbroken person would stumble upon her card and struck with deep empathy, attempt to track her down and reveal himself as her soulmate. (Sorry Anna, better luck next time?)
I guess I just realized how differently we all treat our possessions. And how we all have different motives. Different ways of being. Different attitudes toward emotions. Some (like me) store birthday cards, Christmas (or holiday) cards, and thank you cards in drawers and clear plastic boxes in their bedrooms to look through on rainy (or lazy summer vacation-y) days. Some (like Anna) use them as bookmarks and let them go.
And I just couldn't stop thinking about it. I really couldn't. I was on the BART train, eating my peanut-butter & Nutella sandwich (like a Reese's peanut butter cup in sandwich form, for the record) and I was mulling over the degree to which she must have felt concerned over misplacing her card. I was staring out the window and wondering if she flipped out and tore apart her house, searching for the card. Or if she had nonchalantly shrugged over the loss. Or if it had been intentional--a feud with the parentals, which had resulted in her disgustedly slamming the card (can you slam a card, like you would just slam a door, in anger?) into the book and throwing it on the floor.
So, the profound impact of the hot pink Hallmark card has now triggered my desire to blog. Now I join the ranks of the many who have blogged before me and still blog today. For those of you who know me really well, you'd know that I have a little something against being tethered to technology. (Although after college, I have formed a pretty untame-able addiction to email.) I was pretty anti- owning a MySpace and only caved to Facebook because I met forty of the most amazing girls in the state (JM-love!) and wanted to actively keep in touch.
Here, I guess my intent is that I want to keep learning about other people's drives and motivations. Whether or not you would throw away a card. Whether you do or don't double-check library books before you return them. Whether you have any categorically wacky attachments.
Anyways, now that I've started, I hope you enjoy the stories! Just don't expect me to delete anything I ever write anytime soon. I have attachment issues.
Oh, and if you happen to know (or if you are) an Anna with dark wavy hair and an inclination towards sporting electric blue eyeliner on occasion and happen to be missing a hot pink Hallmark birthday card from your parents, which contains your baby and adolescent pictures, I can help you out.
