Man Purse

Has my backpack become a purse?  Is constant commuting turning me into a girl?

I think this because I’ve started holding my backpack like a purse.  Used to be, on the bus and train and in the bar and restaurant, I’d put it on the floor between my legs, or casually on the seat next to me.  Now I nervously clutch it to my chest, or loop it around my leg.  I’ve started keeping keys and money in the multitude of pockets (because I bought a ridiculous zipper freak-out backpack).  I’ve started to refer to it as a “bag,” and I do that thing where I scramble around in the secret pockets to get my keys, the passcard for my office, or even a little snack.

I even have the occasional nightmare about losing my bag.  Typically, the dreams are enough to wake me up and check on it.  It currently sits – big, formless backpack style – on the dining room table.  I used to just throw it down on the floor when I got home.

I’ve also become attached to it.  I’m proud of my bag, and feel naked without it.  Sometimes I take it out with me when I don’t need it – like if I’m going to a movie down the street with a friend, or just going up to the supermarket to get some milk.

The only time my bag becomes a regular old backpack again is when I’m travelling.  I stuff it to the point where it’s overflowing and take it aboard as carry-on.  After several bad incidents, I’ve stopped checking my baggage.  Then, full of clothes and other travel items, the bag tends to live in the hotel room (or wherever) for the duration of the trip.  When out of town, I become a man again.  No bag.  Important items returned to my pockets.  Footloose and fancy free.

But, back home, the bag is emptied out and prepared for the routine.  My constant companion:  The big, blue backpack.  I fear the day that I find some loose tampons at the bottom of the bag.  It’s that day I’ll be sure to put my head in the oven.