I lived in Atlanta for almost ten years. During that time, I was able to grow professionally (and exponentially) from my start as a front desk clerk to an executive assistant working for a telecommunications company. However, as I progressively moved up in Corporate America, in the success-oriented metropolis that is and was Atlanta, I realized something was afoot. I shopped frequently. My friends shopped frequently. Everywhere you turned, people were resplendent as they went to and fro in their daily lives. Only in Atlanta have I seen men dressed to the nines and looking so well put-together. And the women on their arms (or the others who wanted to be on their arms), were equally or more put-together. As an expert sewer who wished to be a fashion designer when I was in high school, I selected clothing that had rich visual appeal in addition to textures that I enjoyed against my skin. I would study the angle of a heel on a shoe and its relation to the overall shoe as if I were judging an architectural awards submission. My hair was usually cut and coiffed in the latest fashion. I’ve never been a big wearer of makeup but my skin shone from the unctions and potions I applied to it with daily care. I’ve never been a big wearer of nail polish either yet everyone chastised me about not having my nails “done.” Nail salons have hated me because I’ve gone to have a manicure and pedicure to remove any unwanted skin/cuticle (which is a fancy way of restating skin) but always insisted on no polish – not even clear. Special volumes of chastisement were devoted to the criminal offense of me wearing sandals, revealing my feet with unpolished toes. Maybe it was the nail polish debate with special emphasis on the feet that first gave me the feeling that something was – afoot. As more and more of my time was taken with conversations about what I bought, what my friends bought or what we were going to buy, I began to question is this all there is? I would meet men who would walk over to me when I was out and strike up a conversation. We both would be dressed in all of our finery. The initial stages of conversation would include a rundown of his material status. Within minutes I would know what luxury car he drove, the subdivision in which his house was located (or the general area), his title at his job and the company for whom he worked. After this dazzling array of information thrown in my direction, they would then ask me about myself. Although I was an executive assistant, I would drop my title a notch or two and reply that I was a secretary. With that response, quite frequently, I would see the back of the resplendent suit as the person wearing it walked away. Over time, it became somewhat of a sad game. Yet another bright-eyed person would saunter over and reveal his status to me, I would reveal myself as a secretary. Sometimes I would get the long drawn-out goodbye, which included a few lackluster phone calls. If so, I would then try to engage the person with questions about himself that would help me to know who he was as a person. What I found is that quite often, the package was far more important than the content. I would find myself regaled with stories about events on the job, successful moves up the ladder, and the thought process behind their house choice – all manner of things that avoided the essence of the person in question. Some went to church; if it were a mega-church I didn’t count that as real church – just an extension of networking. Sadly, most attended mega-churches. The process of meeting people, over time, became progressively arduous as I attempted to discover the content underneath the packaging and continued to find myself stymied by the continuous presentation of the packaging. Although I love packaging (after all, I wanted to be a designer of packaging), I longed for actual connection. Ever so often, I did meet people who peeled back the layers of packaging to reveal the content of their character and personality. Those relationships I valued. Now, I tend to have a varied package. When I work, I have an armada of professional clothes purchased during my Atlanta heyday that still reflects that I am a professional among professionals. However, while in college the last couple of years, I wore jeans and T-shirts that peeled a few years off my age. I don’t think most would have mistaken me for someone in my 20s but a few guys did find themselves surprised in initial conversations when I mentioned my age. I’m equally comfortable with packaging that says “I’m a professional” as I am in packaging that says “I’m as casual as can be because I’m going to class then home.” The reason? Despite the packaging, I try to put forth that the content beneath the packaging is what is relevant. Usually it works. A little bit of personality. A little bit of intellect. A “lotta” bit of humanity. That’s what lies beneath this packaging and I value the relationships that allow me to show it. I am; therefore, I am.