So long. I barely knew you. But now’s the time to accept it’s over. For much of my life, I aspired to attain you. As King David once lusted after Bathsheba, so too you have been my heart’s desire. But it is clear to me that this passion will remain forever unrequited. I will never be cool. I will never possess coolness, nor trip over it accidentally as I make my way to the kitchen before turning the light on. It is simply not meant to be. I know that now. To precise, I knew it on Thursday of last week. For it was on that day that I finally surrendered any hope whatsoever of being even remotely cool when, for the first time, I strapped on a bum bag.
So long. I barely knew you. But now’s the time to accept it’s over. For much of my life, I aspired to attain you. As King David once lusted after Bathsheba, so too you have been my heart’s desire. But it is clear to me that this passion will remain forever unrequited. I will never be cool. I will never possess coolness, nor trip over it accidentally as I make my way to the kitchen before turning the light on. It is simply not meant to be. I know that now. To precise, I knew it on Thursday of last week. For it was on that day that I finally surrendered any hope whatsoever of being even remotely cool when, for the first time, I strapped on a bum bag.
Call it what you will: bum bag, fanny pack or buffalo pouch; it’s not so much unflattering as it is completely insulting. Let me make clear that my decision to succumb to the allure of the fanny pack was driven strictly by necessity and not, in any way, a matter of style. As I clipped it into place, I would feel every fibre, every cell of my body straining to reject this alien appendage. Just as a body might reject an organ, so did I want to spurn the bum bag. But there was no escape. It was, you might say, my destiny.
Of course I resisted. Nobody starts out accepting their fate as not only the owner but the wearer of a belly bag. But with the benefit of hindsight and a large number of photos; there was plenty to suggest there was trouble afoot, not least being the leather boots with buckles I owned in year 10 that made me look like a six-foot pixie. Sadly for me, there were plenty of other missteps along the way that rendered me a fugitive from the fashion police. In a very real and sartorial sense, I am Dr Richard Kimball, forever trying to evade a fashionable Tommy Lee Jones.
Shirts and I have what I can only describe as an uneasy history. In my first year at Uni, I took a trip to the Queen Victoria Market, determined to purchase an item of clothing. Being young and hip I was intent on purchasing something stylish, something dazzling. I longed then to make a fashion statement. Only now do I realize that statement starts with an expletive, and is closely followed by the word ‘you’. The shirt was red and (there’s no nice way to say this) made me look like a psychedelic cowboy. This was the early nineties, when grunge was taking hold and psychedelic cowboys were not in high demand. It looked like either something that Gram Parsons had rejected or Timothy Leary had thrown up.
As hard as it may be to believe, that shirt was at the less offensive end of the range. I realize now that these choices were all in aid of a desperate and ultimately futile attempt to look arty. This, as much as anything, goes some way to explaining the shirts that resembled a Ken Done canvas after it was clubbed ferociously in some kind of street fight. If only my misdemeanours had been confined to shirts.
I once bought a pair of adult thongs. By ‘adult thong’ I mean they weren’t made of rubber. These were leather, expensive and completely impractical. Instead of the little thing that gets wedged between your toes, these had a single leather strap. Turns out, getting rid of the little thing between the toes is the equivalent of knocking out a load-bearing beam. Whenever I wore them, all I did was think about how to keep them attached to my feet. The slightest lapse in concentration and one if not both of those suckers would take off, landing several feet away. To see me coming down the street was to spot someone who appeared to have two otters strapped to his feet, both of which were intent on escape.
But when it comes to the bum bag, I was not aspiring to be fashionable. That would go without saying, save that it would result in a shorter article. Its purpose is to hold dog food that I can use to coax our puppy to move when she’d rather go to sleep on someone else’s front lawn. It’s bribery, granted; but it’s all in the aid of a good outcome. The history of the fanny pack is kind of complex. Invented by the Scottish, it was worn with a kilt and called a ‘sporran’. Despite the change in nomenclature, the tradition of calling it something horrific endured.
I wear it most days. Not to work. Or, at least, not yet. But when I take the dog for a walk, it takes pride of place, perched at the front of my trousers. I can actually see people avert their eyes. I realize it’s the thin end of an especially unfashionable wedge and, before long, I’ll be sporting a pair of denim overalls (preferably acid wash) or wearing my unitard outside the house. Be sure to honk your horn if you see me. Depending on my mood, I’ll either wave or reach into my bum bag and throw a fistful of dry dog food in your direction.
So farewell, coolness. It hurts me to say this to you but I just don’t think we can see each other any more. It’s time for us both to move on. Nice as it was to know you, in the event we pass each other in the street, let’s pretend we never met. You understand, of course. After all, you’ve been ignoring me for ages. So as I strap on my fanny pack and button up my psychedelic cowboy shirt, at last I can now say the feeling’s mutual.