Saturday, May 8, 2010
I spent the first money I really thought of as my own at the mall in a place like Claires but not at Claires because we didn't have one. I bought a drawstring/flap top mini backpack that was hunter green with a navajo stripe and fake brown leather straps for 11.95. I barely or never used it, which I felt terrible about and is probably the reason it remains on a hook in my childhood room, probably still holding an optimistic lip gloss and change.
It was useless to me because I have never owned or regularly needed just small toiletries or a wallet proper. For those reasons I have never kept a ladies purse, either. But I have loved and become seriously attached to a lot of medium to big backpacks. Life is a trip, ya'll! I pack every day; water, snacks, notes, phone, camera, headphones, layers, booze, extra panties, change of shoes, cash money, identity proof, and more. If you wanna hustle, stay out, have fun, its hard to keep it simple. At the times in which I have had a car, I've taken on even larger containers, using plastic tubs to possess and move around the possible: tools for projects, hard evidence of research, outfit recombinations.
My life now urban safari-pedestrian scale, I look to a backpack to contain my potential, each morning trying to force inside of it all that will protect me and may enable the day I wish to be, but in a manner zipped-in and cultivated not garish or spilling. Still, some days, it can be a lot of pounds, maybe too many. The zipper on the patent leather pack I imagine as professional, ladylike, is breaking. It isn't done for yet, but I am nervous in advance of its retire; a companion of this kind is never meant to be new.