Once upon a time, I moved to a town called Flagstaff to go to school. After I had been there for a few weeks I realized that carrying my books, papers, pens, and liquor bottles around would be a whole lot easier if I had something to put them in, and so I bought a backpack. It was a good backpack, made by a local company on South Beaver Street. (Of course, like every other downtown business of the past, this place is now a bar.)
Over the years, this backpack and I have had a generally pleasant relationship. Sure, just like with any other relationship, ours has not been without its share of ups and downs. And I wouldn’t be completely honest if I didn’t admit that there were a few times when I thought that it was all over. There was the time the zipper broke (twice) and had to be replaced. And the time when a ballpoint pen contracted the pen version of ebola and bled out in the back pocket. And once I even made the mistake of lending it to my daughter, Clementine, and she decided it was easier to cut the back pocket open than to unzip it.
But other than that we’ve had a good life together. It’s nothing special—just a plain red color—so it’s never had to suffer the indignity of, say, a Hannah Montana backpack, and go out of style. And it’s not trendy, so I don’t have to worry about people looking at all the carabiner clips on it and thinking, “Right, like you’re going to climb El Capitan anytime soon.”
True, our relationship is probably not as exciting as the relationships Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have with their backpacks, but then again, at least I never have to worry about my backpack “accidentally” going home with Jennifer Aniston. The fact of the matter is, there’s a lot to be said for safe, solid, and secure. Or at least, I thought there was—right up until I saw the relationship my daughter has with her backpack (or should I say backpacks), and I realized how lame our relationship really was.
For one thing, with me and my backpack, there’s no drama. Unlike Clementine, I have never left my backpack on a bus, a train, a plane, or a boat. I have also never left my backpack somewhere where the police have to come and investigate it. I have never left it behind when I got out of the car, never left it under my desk when I left class, and never left it sitting, forlornly, by a frozen pond.
What this means is that, unlike Clementine, I don’t get to have the joyful reunions that she and her backpacks share—those tender moments that only come after the break up. (Mmmm—make-up backpack.) I also don’t get that thrill that comes from starting a new backpack relationship—those first few giddy days when you are still discovering secret cell phone pockets and hidden lumbar support. (Or even better, the thrill of starting a new backpack relationship and then still getting to make up with your old one. Also known as—“Oh, I guess it wasn’t stolen. I guess I just left it in Lauren’s car.” )
Also, unlike Clementine, I don’t get to go backpack shopping every few weeks—except, of course, in my mind. (Oh, like you’ve never fantasized about bringing home a strange backpack—maybe one of those little leather numbers.) But then again, even though I don’t get to have the backpack drama that Clementine does, I do get to have a special relationship with each and every new backpack that she will never have—at least not until she’s out on her own.
That’s right: I get to pay for them.