You see, I am the Kind of Person who carries a notebook all the time. It is the repository and record of my life, from to-do lists to major epiphanies. I get twitchy when I don’t have a notebook (and working pen) within reach. It is what people see when they see me. The notebook is me, it defines who I am. I am the Kind of Person whose notebook is blackâ€”serious, beat-poet, anarchist black.
My current notebook has been with me for almost two years, and it is full. A standard little moleskin bought in New Mexico, it has a Georgia O’Keeffe postcard glued on the front and a Cortes Bike Gang sticker on the back; it is battered and ratty and ready for the archive. This one actually isn’t black, to be honestâ€”it is deep forest green. But even the green was a stretch.
I am certainly not the Kind of Person to have a hot-pink leather notebook. It’s not me and I don’t want it. But damn it. That pink notebook wants me. I look over my shoulder to see if anyone’s watching, pick it up, give it a sniff. It smells faintly, sexily, of cow. I put the notebook down.
Turning away, I select a no-nonsense black Moleskin from the rotating display and carry it toward the cash. But then I stop and turn back. The pink notebook beckons again from the shelf, with the little kissing sound you would use to call a squirrel to take a peanut from your hand. I pick it up again. I turn it over, stroking its cover and its cream-coloured leaves. This notebook, that wants me so badâ€”well it isn’t just pink, it is hot pink. And it is the perfect sizeâ€”a centimeter bigger than the black Moleskin. It has an inner pouch, nice opaque unlined pages, a place-finding ribbon and a sturdy elastic band. The elastic is matching pink. The black moleskin is covered in fake leather, but the pink one is the real thing. Real, buttery, baby-skin leather. It is perfect.
Butâ€¦the pink. I can’t have a pink leather notebookâ€”it is so Not Me. My notebook is a commitment; it has to be right. What will people think?
I come to my senses and put down the pink. Carry the black moleskin to the counter and open my wallet. Take out my debit card. Stop. Turn back to the notebook section and this time i swear, the pink notebook winks at me. C’mon, it says. C’mon. Take me home.
I open the pink notebook to the first virgin page. Pencilled lightly in the corner is the price: $14.99. The serious black moleskin is $17.99.
OK. Done. Sold.
Now I am a person with a little pink notebook. I’m that kind of person. Who am I now?