Mourning the Loss of My Beloved Backpack
I'm not one to get very sentimental about "stuff" like some ugly vase that your great aunt Beatrice left you. I'm all for handing things down and having them be special, but you have to LIKE them. For example, when my aunt died last year, in life, she was quite the pearl aficionado, and because I was her favorite niece, I got all of her pearl jewelry, black pearls, pink pearls, regular pearls, necklaces, rings, earrings, the works. I love all of them equally, and I'm glad to have them. However, my mother's creepy Christmas decorations? No thank you. I'll have the memories, you can keep the scary dolls.
That said, there are certain exceptions to this rule. That exception, of course, is my beloved backpack. Right before 8th grade, I decided that I needed a new, grown-up backpack. I saw the East Pack Navy Blue backpack and fell in love. It came with a lifetime guarantee and a hefty price tag. $50 for a backpack was too much for my mother to indulge, seeing as she thought my fickle tastes would change with the next school year as they always seemed to do. But not this time. I ended up buying the backpack with my own money and proved my mother wrong. I used that backpack for my final year of Middle School and all throughout high school.
It was ravaged with patches, safety pins, and various punk rock band buttons when I was 16 and angry at everything even though I lived a privileged life and had no real problems.
The hormones died down and the patches and pins were removed, and the backpack followed me to college. Of course, as we all know with college, while the backpack was used from time to time to transport books, most of the time it transported Nalgeine bottles full of Raspberry Vodka or an 18 pack of Bud Light as we snuck past dorm security freshman year. Seriously, did we really think that the security guards thought we were coming back from the library with our bookbags filled with, um, books on a Friday or Saturday night? Please.
Needless to say, my backpack has been with me through all of my formative years. This is why my housemates found me on the living room floor, clutching the backpack and screaming "WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY" as I realized that the old zipper had finally broken and is totally beyond repair.
Of course, the stupid/beloved thing decided to bail on me a mere three months before I will never, for all intents and purposes, need a backpack again. I refuse to buy a new one. I'll carry my books, old school style. You know, in my hands.
Goodbye, old buddy. I'm going to miss you.