So, this Hermes pen. People hear “Hermes” and they think, wow, must be something else. Let me tell you, my journey with this thing wasn’t exactly a trip to a fancy boutique with a glass of champagne in hand. Not at all.
It all started with my Uncle Leo. Eccentric old guy, collected all sorts of bits and bobs. When he moved into that smaller place, he decided I was the lucky recipient of a box labelled “Leo’s Important Stuff.” I opened it up, expecting old maps or maybe some weird fishing lures. And there it was, nestled between a surprisingly heavy paperweight shaped like a toad and a half-finished manuscript about alien gardeners. A Hermes pen. No fancy box, just… there. I picked it up. Felt kinda solid, a bit weighty. My first thought wasn’t “oh, luxury!” It was more like, “Huh, wonder if it still writes.”
My Grand Writing Ambitions
I figured, okay, I’ve got this seriously posh pen now. I should do something significant with it. You know, write that novel I always talk about after two beers. Or at least pen some incredibly insightful journal entries. I got myself some nice paper, cleared a corner of my perpetually messy desk, and sat down. The pen felt smooth, sure. The ink flowed. But the words? They were the same old jumble. My profound thoughts still sounded suspiciously like my shopping lists. Turns out, a fancy pen doesn’t magically upgrade your brain cells.
So, the grand novel stayed unwritten. The insightful journal entries mostly cataloged what I had for dinner or complained about the weather. I started using the Hermes pen for everyday stuff. Signing birthday cards. Jotting down phone numbers. Making notes during those endless Zoom calls. It was, you know, a pen. A very nice pen, but still a tool to get ink onto paper.
The Day I Became ‘The Guy with The Pen’
The real “practice,” the moment this pen became more than just a pen, happened at the most mundane place: the post office. I had to sign for a package, a replacement part for my leaky faucet, nothing glamorous. I fumbled in my bag for a pen, and out came the Hermes. The postal worker, a lady who usually looked like she’d seen it all and was impressed by none of it, stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes zeroed in on the pen like it was a rare artifact.
“Is that… is that a real one?” she whispered, like we were discussing state secrets. I just nodded, kinda awkwardly. Suddenly, I wasn’t just “customer with package.” I was “the guy with THE PEN.” She handled my package slip like it was a historical document, taking extra care where I signed. For the next few minutes, it wasn’t about my leaky faucet part anymore. It was all about the pen. She asked how it wrote, if it was heavy, if I used it often. I felt like I was being interviewed for a documentary on extravagant writing implements. I just wanted my package.
Since then, I’ve been a bit more careful where I whip it out. Not because I’m afraid of losing it, but because it sometimes causes more fuss than it’s worth. It’s a good pen, don’t get me wrong. Writes beautifully when I need it to. But the stories and reactions it generates? That’s the unexpected part of owning this thing. It’s become less about the writing and more about the watching people react. Uncle Leo probably would’ve found that hilarious.
