If there’s an enzyme that regulates concern for how one is perceived by the general public, my levels are dangerously low. Add that to my tendency to choose a logical (to me) solution despite the hair-pulling, eye-bulging frustration of my companions, and I’m pretty sure I’m a sociopath.
As evidence, I present Exhibit A: my fanny pack. But I don’t wear it on my fanny (or at least, not the North American definition of ‘fanny’), so I refer to it as a waist pouch. See? Blatant disregard for the norms of society.
I’m not actually oblivious to fashion; I just find it annoyingly illogical. On those rare occasions when I’m forced to dress up, I wear stylish clothes and hide my waist pouch inside a capacious handbag. But it’s only an empty gesture to craftily hide my psychosis (which is another earmark of sociopathy, by the way).
When I’m wearing my waist pouch, I’m happy and comfortable… and a walking fashion faux pas. I’m fully aware the fashion police will one day take me down. But until they do, I’m keeping it.
It’s comfortable, practical, and hands-free. It’s attached to my body, so it’s impossible to accidentally leave it behind. When I’m riding a motorcycle, I don’t have to figure out how to carry a purse. When I’m hiking or skiing or golfing, it’s right there when I need it. And despite its approximately five-pound weight, it’s effortless to carry because it hangs on my hips, not my shoulder.
As long as I’ve got my pouch, I’m set to survive anything from a business meeting to an exile in the wilderness. I’ve got bandaids, tissues, sunscreen, two kinds of lip balm (one with SPF 15), sunglasses, a flashlight, a bottle opener, one sturdy folding knife, and one Swiss-Army-type pocketknife with tweezers and screwdrivers and so forth.
There’s a small drugstore’s worth of useful pharmaceuticals like ASA, ibuprofen, anti-nauseants, antacids, cough drops, zinc lozenges, dextrose tablets, eye drops, and a bronchodilator. And I have my smartphone, pen, earplugs, dental floss, concealer, hair brush, hair elastics, hand sanitizer, breath mints, scissors, a measuring tape, screwdrivers, reading glasses, nail clippers, and a nail file.
Of course, I also carry my wallet, cheque book, and change purse. And a key to every lock in my life (21 in all, plus an extra for my car just in case). And a bunch of business cards. And two USB flash drives because I’m paranoid about keeping offsite backups of my work. Oh, and a little chunk of amethyst, because folklore says it enhances creativity and prevents drunkenness, which are both important considerations for a writer.
And there’s still room for my MP3 player in a pinch.
Everything has a place, and it’s packed so efficiently and predictably that I can find any item one-handed in the dark in ten seconds or less.
How can you argue with those benefits? A waist pouch is clearly the best solution. It’s simple logic. Like all good sociopaths, I hold the implicit belief that I’m right and the rest of the world is wrong.
So if you see the fashion police headed my way, call me. I’ll cut through the window screen with my pocketknife, lower myself on a rope made of dental floss, and cleverly disable their car with my screwdrivers before making my getaway. Wearing my sunglasses as a disguise.
Why yes, actually, paranoia is also a symptom of sociopathy… why do you ask?