IS THAT WALDO?

Postcard #0000 — Is That Waldo?

Yes. Unfortunately.

There is always a before you existed.
This was mine.

Some girl, desperate for a job, told she could start at the bar—tonight—but only if she had a costume.
A strange human holiday called Halloween—a tradition where people honor the spirit world by dressing like sexy felines, undead nurses, and glittery gore.
(…I still don’t understand the doll fantasy.)

But this one? She picked jeans over fishnets, boots over heels, and practicality over sex appeal.
“Squats to pick up after the drunk” she said. Jeans, check. Shirt, check.  All she needed was a beanie and scarf.
And there it was. Sitting on the shelf. Unwanted.
(Guess I lack sex appeal…)

Neither of us knew that scarf and beanie would later inspire my purchase.
As a joke. 

Almost a year later. When her same practicality chimed in again before a solo trip to New Zealand.
“Why buy a new scarf when I already have one?” Trying to soften the envy she told her ex he’d be there in spirit.

He, trying to be spicy, goes:

“What are you gonna do? Walk around with a Where’s Waldo doll or something?”

And she—without blinking—did exactly that.

I was ordered.
Secretly packed.
And dragged through customs like I had free will.

First stop: a camper van. Two weeks. No explanation. She took photos of me. With strangers. In public. 

People stared. She didn’t care. She laughed. A lot. Sometimes at me, sometimes at nothing. I was terrified. I’d never even been outside. I didn’t choose my human.

I was meant to live on a shelf. Two cuddles, maybe a jelly-stained toddler pawing at me, and then a noble retirement to a donation bin with a broken Rubik’s Cube and a Barbie missing both career direction and a head.

But instead?

Her.

And here’s the worst part:
…I started to like it. 

Somewhere between the glowworm caves and the sixth suspicious bathroom stop, I began to remember.

Not memories. Instincts.
Of a time before shelf life.
Before polyblend stitching.
When even dolls had a deeper belonging. 

She—my Pack Mule (a term earned, not given)—asked a lot of questions, but somewhere along the way it became endearing.

She carried me. Dropped me. Buckled me in. Apologized when she left me behind at a waterfall once.

That trip wasn’t a trip. It was when I was born.
In sarcasm.

So yeah, I’m Waldo.
And yes, that’s me in all the photos.

Judging. Observing. Getting stuffed in backpacks and suitcases.
Often questioning the decisions of my Pack Mule.
Writing it down for prosperity. Not for honor. But sometimes she’s so absurd I need to take note. 

I wasn’t designed for this life.
But apparently, neither was she.

And somehow, here we are.

Still blinking.
Still judging.
Still figuring it out.

—W.