My son, Clyde, will be starting fifth grade this year, which means that once again I will dig out “The Backpack.” Note the definite article, please: not a backpack, but rather the backpack. We’re not talking about some random bag with straps attached, something that could be had at any Target, WalMart, or, for the classy, Lands’ End, but rather the backpack. The only one.
At least, the only one Clyde has ever owned.
There are several reasons for this. The first is that I am incredibly cheap. Okay, to be honest, the second and third reasons are also that I am incredibly cheap. What can I say? I just don’t see the point in spending money on the same thing year after year, when, as far as I can see, it’s not like there have been any major advances in backpack technology. And even if there have been, so what? I mean, it’s not like I’m making him use an outdated insulin pump or something. And besides, hypothetical advances in backpack technology aside, the essential function of a backpack has remained the same for the last forty years: it is a place to lose your homework in. In that sense, a potato sack would probably work out just as well as the latest backpack, and might even work out better—especially if you left a few of the original potatoes inside.
Putting aside cheapness for the moment, though, (if I must), the second reason Clyde has never owned a different backpack (the fourth reason, actually, if you’re keeping track), is that I feel guilty about filling the landfills of the world with perfectly good, if outdated, backpacks. And yes, backpacks do become outdated: while I might be hesitant to accept that backpacks have been improved on structurally, I am completely cognizant of the fact they do change in a fashion sense, and that therefore, just like that Grand Funk Railroad t-shirt you wore to death back in sophomore year, can become outdated.
This hasn’t always been the case—back in my day, no one ever thought about whether or not their backpack was unfashionable: it was a backpack, and therefore, by its very nature, it was unfashionable. Sadly, this is no longer true, thanks to the same people who convinced our preteen daughters that they needed a new princess every other month. I’m speaking, of course, about the Disney people. Because before Disney got into the backpack business, your choice of backpacks was limited to blue or red. Once Disney got involved, however, and started putting people like Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers on backpacks (as well as the above-mentioned princesses), backpacks might as well have been made of soft cheese—their shelf life was that limited. (There’s a joke in there somewhere about Lindsay Lohan and Limburger, but I think I’ll let it pass.)
Of course, the same could be said about the lunchboxes we carried when I was in school, but at least our lunchboxes were durable enough to become collectible one day, so that, hopefully, the mom who had to suffer through swapping out the Grizzly Adams one one for the Happy Days one for the Dukes of Hazzard one was able to take early retirement off of the stash in her basement. The same can’t really be said about a backpack, though—no one is ever going to buy a used backpack as a “collectible,” not even the ones with “Milli Vanilli” on them. Why? Because, unlike a lunchbox, which is impermeable, a backpack is going to soak up every smell it comes in contact with.
Which is why Clyde’s great backpack run will almost certainly end this year: next year will bring middle school, and with it, gym class. And even my great, great cheapness is no match for the smell of fermented boy socks.