A man can count his burdens, I think, by the amount of stuff in his pockets. Check the pockets of any carefree kids – there won’t be much there. A quarter or two, if that. Maybe some gum. A favourite stone. Or a marble. Kids travel lightly through life and so they should. This could make for one of those good old Irish sayings: May you be heavy with blessings and light in your pockets.
Sadly, a kid’s pockets inevitably begin to fill up. Maybe with a wallet a kindly aunt bestows on him at Christmas. A little flashlight. A jackknife. A small digital music player. Travelling a bit heavier, now, but at least most of his baggage still falls into the fun category.
The trouble really starts with that first-ever key. The arrival of a bit of autonomy but also of responsibility. That house key, perhaps, begins to attract others – car keys, keys to work, and even keys to other doors in the same house. Maybe even the house key from a trustful neighbour with a dog to walk as a favour now and then.
Over the years, I got by fairly well under this system, managing to keep a not-too-bloated wallet and a moderately loaded keychain. The wallet went into the left pocket of my jacket, the keys in the right. Simple.
Enter the cellphone. Like a houseguest joyously welcomed on arrival but who then wouldn’t leave, the phone messed with the wallet-keychain balance, and I’ve never really recovered. Then there were other, work-related items. A small digital recorder. With back up batteries. Then a small notebook. And pen. A small digital camera. And backup batteries.
Then, of all things, a “thumb” drive – a small device onto which computer files can be loaded at work and carried home and vice versa.
Leaving home or leaving work, I began to look like a busker, juggling almost a dozen items at once and generally dropping one or two or leaving some behind. (OK, not a very good busker.)
This is how, last week, I ended up in a store searching for something in which to carry all my burdens. Something not too large. Perhaps with a strap and several small, zippered pockets. Soft, imitation leather would be good.
Suddenly, there it was. Calling out to me, it seemed. It also seemed as though my whole life had been leading me to this point. My joy was complete, marred hardly at all by the fact that this little black beauty was in a section under a sign designating the articles there as PURSES.
I have known men who have carried purses and I make no judgment on them. I just didn’t think I would ever count myself among their number.
For years, my spouse has arrived home with new purses and excitedly shown me all the wonderful features of her latest find. I admit, I’ve not been overwhelmed. But there I was last Thursday night, showing my family the incredible traits of the treasure I had dug up for $6.99.
What I got for my troubles was laughter.
Extreme laughter to be exact. Referring to it, as I did, as my “man purse” or even as my “MP” did little to lessen the mirth.
Apparently what did me in was when I demonstrated how, by weaving my belt through a small strap, my purse can transform into a “fanny pack”.
Evidently no two words serve as proof that a person has passed into that class of people known as “old” than these: Fanny Pack.
Carrying it renders me either effeminate or old.
Old enough to remember this line from a favourite movie.
“Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn.”
©2008 Jim Hagarty
