Mama Rock

"So... You wanna talk to me about bags?"


Despite all the craziness and sleeplessness, it has been a surprisingly good week for me.

And I came to the realization.

That, to my pleasure and perhaps even relief, there's some fire, some passion in me that still hasn't died.

Give me, anytime, my favorite topic about bags - or more specifically, women and bags - and I still rock the crowd.

Which I did. To a largely unfamiliar crowd. To an unexpectedly huge, mindblowing extent.

I kid not. And I brag not either. Two days on, and I still have relative strangers walk up to me and grab my hand for a congratulatory shake: "You were just amazing... Your confidence on stage blows me away... You are probably the best presenter I've ever met."

I probably don't deserve the honor. I didn't really mean to impress. I might even have stupidly upped my own standard. All I had wanted was just to have fun and send my love for bags out to the people.

The second, more subtle realization crept up silently. Over my sushi lunch, in fact.

I think I might be a born entertainer. A shameless one, in fact. I might rock like Chris Rock.


The third, and rather in-my-face, realization plagues me still.

I have never been, and I still am not, good with receiving compliments.

I have no confident replies. I fight hard to suppress the flush burning up my cheeks. I wish the ground would swallow me whole there and then.

I don't deserve anything.

Perhaps, off the stage, I am not that shameless after all.


I really don't deserve anything.

I will never ask of anything. Because I don't deserve.