I found her in the back of my closet. I’d bought her years earlier on Etsy. Like the bedazzled turban I’d purchased at the Brooklyn Flea, I tried her on every six months, building up her hopes, only to shove her back in a drawer. Fanny Pack.
This summer, emboldened by my Jesus Year and a general feeling of not giving a shit, I put her on for good. I sleep in her. She’s my marsupial pouch. She holds just enough and not too much.
My posture is much improved now that Giant Suitcase Purse stays home. Giant Suitcase Purse weighed me down with mushed bananas, receipts full of chewing gum, seven point five scarves and a small, energy-efficient refrigerator. Not to mention my friend Ted, who crashed in Giant Suitcase Purse’s side compartment when he missed the last bus. Giant Suitcase Purse was totally oppressive, an underminer, a ballbuster. Giant Suitcase Purse made me a hoarder. Fanny Pack has only love in her folds.
What’s more, Fanny Pack and I have a mutually beneficial relationship. I am helping restore her good name, much damaged by her parents and the tourist waists they undiscriminatingly clung to. Fanny Pack is helping me let go. Why did I carry so much weight? Why did I care so much? When was I ever going to eat that mushed banana?