Wendy, modeling the versatility of Samsonite’s comfy, padded interior.

I’ve been commuting to my job for six years next month (umm, wow…really? Where have the years GONE?!), during which time I’ve put a number of bags to the test. I’ve tried the two-fer: the purse and work bag double whammy (too much to carry). I’ve given the messenger bag a go (not enough room for a change of shoes, lunch, and everything else without looking like I’m hauling a small child). Eventually though, I found a happy medium with the now ubiquitous Longchamp Le Pliage large zip-top tote bag (in Billberry and with the As Seen on TV Kangaroo Keeper to organize the gigantressness of the bag itself- can NEVER find my keys!).

But then a couple of weeks ago, I was given the opportunity to try out a backpack from Samsonite’s new line- although I have one of their pieces of luggage, which I love and would recommend, I wasn’t aware they had backpacks too. But oh do they ever (and FYI, they’re on sale here until August 31)!

When I began carrying the Samsonite Tectonic backpack during my daily commute, the first thing I immediately noticed was how freely I was able to get around, even running after the bus and hopping on an earlier train! Can you imagine?

Even though I’d loaded every inner and side pocket and zip-close pouch with my nomadic accoutrements, I found that the weight of the bag was more evenly distributed compared to my over the shoulder and messenger bags. In fact, I actually felt lighter and promptly demonstrated said lightness by evoking various “superstar” poses à la Mary Katherine Gallagher to the dude also known as my boyfriend. Over the top perhaps, but this bag single-handedly has made my 3 hour round trip daily commute easier and much less of a strain.

Aesthetically, I think this backpack fits within my lifestyle remarkably well. I find that the backpack is sporty while also maintaining a professional appearance. Some of the other backpacks I’ve seen people carrying around look like they’re part of an outer space program! Seriously, what is that all about anyway? Still other backpacks are a bit “much”- I’m only going to work, so why do I need to look like I’m heading out on a 12 day expedition to the Arctic Circle?  

This is certainly not one of those bags! It’s compact and sleek in black with grey padding and mesh fabric accents on the straps (it is available in three colors however). I particularly like that they chose orange for the thread, zipper pull, and logo accents. A small but nice touch that someone like me appreciates.

Overall, the zippers themselves are sturdy- especially the closure for the laptop pocket, the straps have a thoughtful rounded opening at the end to cinch the backpack to your shoulders and can be used to rest your thumbs in while walking, there’s an extra padded top handle, and durable utilitarian fabric (that withstood an accidental soaking after toppling under one of the automatic faucets in the work bathroom- long story).

Since I’ve completely made the switch to this backpack, I decided to “jazz it up” and make it my own with a few little buttons… one from CHIRP Radio (which I’ve become a bit of a groupie of thanks to the dude’s extensive involvement with them), a foursquare “swarm” badge because I’m completely addicted to checking in, and an ampersand that I picked up at Longman & Eagle during @bayjb’s birthday dinner last August because I liked it’s simplicity- though the food I decidely did not care for (Jess, can you believe it’s been a year already?). Of course, my most favoritest must-have accessory of all is Wendy. She loves the new bag too, and promptly fell asleep shortly after our photo shoot commenced.

Beyond using the backpack for work, I intend to put it to good use during upcoming bike rides (the new bike- I went with red- is here at last!), trips to the dog beach with Wendy (girl can’t go to the beach without her towel!), and maybe even to the @20SB Summit next week (I have no idea what to bring so why not everything?).

So tell me, do you commute to work? Take public transportation regularly? What bags do you like/ recommend?

**Please note that while Samsonite provided me with this backpack free of charge, my review and all of the subsequent opinions and recommendations contained therein are my own and given without compensation. I just like a good product when I see one! 

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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So, what’s an almost 31 year old like me to do? Brighten, protect, moisturize, perfect, buff, tone, and bronze!

Ever since I was 22, I’ve been using various anti-wrinkle creams and serums religiously (“THEY’RE PREVENTATIVE!!!!”). These “miracle” creams have come a long way since then, and the ubiquity of Sephora and Ulta have made them accessible to anyone willing to pony up $30 to $180 a pop. There’s a reason they call it “Hope in a Jar” afterall.

As an added bonus, if you’re anything like me, in addition to worrying about fine lines and wrinkles and staving off age spots, you also get to deal with having regular break outs. Fun fun fun!!!!  On top of which, we’re all supposed to be sporting daily SPF under our make up…even in winter.

This is why I’m checking a bag. Why I always check a bag. For the low, low price of $50 round trip, my anti-aging and blemish control products accompany me wherever I fly. If you thought using wrinkle cream at 22 was crazy…

Crazy or not, I do feel that some of these products actually work, or rather, that it’s worth it to me to try. Regardless of the product or the price point, I think perhaps the most important part of any skin care regimen is sticking with it, getting enough sleep, and using a good SPF. Instead of trying that under-eye treatment sporadically for only three weeks, keep at it each night for the full six to eight weeks like they recommend. And then decide if it’s right for you.

Personally, I’ll own that I haven’t always stuck with what I’ve set out to try- sometimes a product simply doesn’t agree with my skin, doesn’t layer well under my make-up, or can simply be cost prohibitive long term. That said, there have been a couple of products in recent years that I especially love and would recommend. In particular, I like ones that are light and easily absorbed into the skin, and I like targeted products for specific skin problems or areas.

Click on the “i” in the upper right corner of the gallery to get my take on each of the products in the slideshow below.

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See, the couple sitting next to me turned out to be one of THOSE couples: an Icky Couple. And they were proving to be your quintessential Icky Couple. You know, the kind that can’t seem to walk down the street without grasping hands and kissing at each red light, the kind who can’t eat an otherwise perfectly acceptable meal without rubbing each other’s backs, necks or legs (BARF!), or the kind who has to stick their tongues down each other’s throats before parting each morning like one of them is being sent off to war or something. Dude, it’s nine or ten hours apart. I think you’ll make it.

As for this particular Icky Couple, they were making quite a show of it, acting like a bunch of janky ass fifteen year olds, holding hands, kissing each other’s cheeks, practically crawling into each other’s laps, laying their heads on one another’s shoulders à la “oh-my-god-we’re-so-sleepy-because-we-presumably-were-up-all-night-hahahahahahaha,” and talking in a tone louder than a whisper. Can you imagine?

If they were “just kids,” maybe I could have kept my disdain from growing into the seething fire breathing rage dinosaur it has become, but they weren’t. No. The Icky Couple consisted of two otherwise professional-looking adults, dressed for a day at the office where presumably they hold actual, grown up, professional jobs. So I have to wonder…who’s all this ickiness for anyway? Is it really necessary demonstrater your “love” amidst your fellow CTA bus riders? And is the 15-25 minute bus ride the right place and time to properly display said love? The way I see it, romance isn’t about being an Icky Couple to everyone around you. It’s about genuine and PRIVATE moments that don’t result in PDAs on the #135 route into the Loop before 8 am on a Tuesday.

Which brings to mind the day my own boyfriend and I accidentally wound up on the same bus route downtown. Strolling up to the bus stop that morning, I decided it would be best to throw my hip into him from behind, then wait for him to turn around all surly and shit. Which he totally did, except “Hi! It’s just me! Ha ha ha ha ha!!! Good morning!”

After the initial “Oh, it’s you” moment, we go on standing there all aloof and junk until the bus comes and then we sit down side by side, barely touching. And- this is key- for the short 15 minute ride downtown we don’t talk because 1) we don’t have to, and 2) it’s fucking annoying when people do that on public transportation in the morning. Seriously. Just don’t do it. Whether you know someone riding the bus with you or you dare to use your cell phone. DON’T. And, no, there’s no “texting loophole” either- unless you have your phone on silent and don’t make Icky Couple faces while sexting or whatever the fuck else it is that you’re doing. 

Anyway, to cap off the bus ride with my boyfriend that morning, we parted ways with a blasé eyebrow raise and head nod (from me) and a “peace out” punch to the arm (from him). You know, totally normal stuff really and, most importantly, no one’s morning was stymied in the process.

In closing, all you Icky Couple toolbags out there take note and keep it in your pants. No one wants to witness your “love” on public transportation, in the gluten free aisle at the Jewel, while you’re dropping off your dry cleaning, or you know, like ever (unless it’s your wedding, in which case, fine…I guess).

Shut it down, fuckers. Shut. It. Down.

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Black wool pea coats and puffer down jackets. Black berets and black gloves. Black dress shoes and ballet flats and knee high boots in black tights. Black trouser pants and skirts and suits. Black messenger bags and laptop cases and satchels. Black iPhones and Blackberrys.

Black. You’d almost think they’re all headed to a funeral. Maybe they are. They are, after all, on their way to work. An all black funeral procession dreading that 8 a.m. conference call. Dreading that “chummy” office banter- pedantic and forced and not all that funny really. Dreading the 3:30 vending machine run for overpriced but absolutely necessary Snickers because it satisfies. Dreading the pre-meeting to prepare for the meeting that will be followed by the post-meeting recap. Dreading brainstorming sessions with “the team” to throw even more words about synergies onto the heap already accumulated.

Black. They’ve accessorized their dread with sullen, sallow, vacant faces to match. So even should the sun brave the gloom, it’s always dark dark dark on this bus with those faces and their dread and all that black.

Briefly standing there, I scan the huddled masses- one onyx coat sleeve blending into the next- and TRIUMPH! find a coveted seat. It is then that I proceed to virtually slap my seatmates across the face. WAKE UP!

I’m on my way to a funeral too. But I’m the girl in the blood-orange toggle coat.

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I immediately rule out one of those seemingly innocuous seats toward the front of the bus because I’m liable to lose it. My route is prone to a few elderly regulars and at least one expectant woman. Who, incidentally, I wasn’t aware was expecting in this weather with all the heavy coats and such- although that didn’t prevent her from shooting daggers at me for not hopping up with alacrity to give her my seat. Perhaps she’s practicing for the day The Baby turns 13 and decides she hates her mother? Or the day her husband realizes his growing resentment of marriage/house/baby around age 43?

Moving toward the center of the bus, game time decisions must be made. Where to go? Where to put my butt? Where? Where? WHERE DAMMIT?

Not there…that man is in fact taking up a seat and a half, despite his best efforts to the contrary. He can’t help it, but still. And not across the aisle either…there’s a double whammy of both a woman talking to her fellow co-worker or neighbor or what have you (which is peculiar on this route, as we’re a generally sullen bunch- all sallow and droopy eyed and silent as a library) and another woman chowing down on a freaking bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Breakfast of champions indeed.

So if not there, where? Certainly not next to the man aggressively reading his paper, scorning all would be seat mates from daring to deign on his elbow room. No need to expose myself to his moody shenanigans. But if I go too far into the bus without selecting a seat, I’m likely to find myself without any option whatsoever. And at that point, there’s no turning back. I’ll have just committed myself to standing and shuffling amongst all those who will exit the bus before me. The elbow jabs, the pole wrestling, the computer satchels and messenger bags unceremoniously poking and prodding without abatement. Asses and elbows, asses and elbows.

Despite all of my efforts, despite recognizing all the places I ought not to sit, wouldn’t you know I often find myself darting into a less-than-desirable seat? Bus seat stage fright. There I sit broken and defeated next to the stinky food eater, the cell phone talker, the personal space “creeper,” or the seatmate who wants to be my new friend and won’t take a hint. Foiled again.

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What if instead of getting on the local commuter train, I walked up to the Amtrak ticket counter and boarded one of their trains instead? Amtrak isn’t exactly the most efficient (the arrivals can literally swing a day behind schedule) or the most romantic form of travel (have you ever spent any time on a train with “train people”? The smell, the shoelessness, the snoring, the Golden Grahams smooshed into your seat cushion…), but it can get the job done. In fact, my first excursions out of my hometown were by train, often to this very station. Something about that, about the act of escape, calls to me still.

What if instead of going to work, I bought a ticket to somewhere else? I could literally go anywhere. Anywhere else but here.

I could board a train and take it west to Montana, see the mountains again, the snows that never melt. I could go to the east coast, take the train to Maine; figure out what one does there anyway (eat lobster bisque?). I could head to Seattle, smell the rain and coffee beans and cranberry bogs. I could finally see New Orleans or Boston, San Fransisco or Vancouver. Or maybe just take a day trip to Minneapolis or St. Louis or “exotic” Cleveland. I guess the place isn’t what I’m after, but the going. A different city with different people and a different pace; something just left or right of center.

I could go without a hello or good bye, without a suitcase or camera, without a plan or reservation or companion. I could just go. I could, couldn’t I?

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