Which is why I was examining it in the first place. After years of taking it into the hills, my bag is looking a bit ratty. It's original, uninspiring grey hue is trending toward the beige of the Southern California soil. It it streaked with charcoal from the charred remains of sumac and manzanita and elderberry. And an accumulation of salty rime coats the shoulder straps from a number of missions in the scorching heat. In sum, the bag isn't as attractive or appealing as it was on that December evening when I first plucked it from the rack at REI.
But aesthetics aside, the bag has held up nicely. The ripstop nylon from which it is made has proved to be impressively durable and impenetrable to thorns and needles and spikes and sticks and sharp rocks and all the other prickly, scratchy, and pokey stuff that dominates the landscape here. Save for one small puncture wound on the bottom, my bag shows no tears or rips or other failings. The $19.99 I paid for the thing has turned out to be a pretty damn good investment.
And therein lies the problem. I troll outdoor gear companies online. I visit retail stores that sell backpacks and sleeping backs and tents and other goodies - at least I used to before COVID changed the world. I get Backpacker magazine monthly. So I see all the sexy new packs that are out there just waiting for a home. I know that there are a bunch of "new and improved" day-packs with a host of must-have features that I don't have. And damnit, bag envy demands that I have one of those new bags even though I really don't need one.
I don't know whether that is indicative of some inherent character flaw I have, or whether I'm just easily swayed by slick marketing schemes and shiny objects, but this desire for a new day-pack when it really isn't necessary conjures an incident from my youth that suggests that perhaps I've always harbored this defect. When I was a youngster, I had a pair a olive green canvas "Keds." Other than their repulsive color, the shoes were in perfectly good condition. But somehow I had grabbed onto the idea that I really needed new pair of shoes. Of course, I knew that was complete bullshit, and that I just wanted new shoes, but I couldn't let on to either myself or my parents without destroying that delusion. So I didn't.
The problem was that there was nothing at all wrong my green Keds. And my parents weren't visually impaired. Their eyesight was pretty damn good actually. And they certainly weren't going to open the wallet for new kicks simply to pacify my budding vanity or to placate my irrational wants. So I forced the issue. I'd deliberately wear out my Keds so that my parents would have to buy me new shoes.
Once that sinister plan was conceived, I set out with skateboard under foot to put my scheme into action. But this proved to be no easy task because like my REI Flash pack, these things were pretty durable. Holes wouldn't suddenly appear just through normal wear. So I resorted to abnormal wear. I rubbed the heels against the concrete curb. I dragged the tops across grass and gravel. I shuffled my feet across the asphalt to scuff the bottoms. I dragged the toes along the sidewalk.
Ultimately, after a hard day's work of this, I had managed to pretty much destroy my puke green Keds. But the destruction was unnatural. There were patches of road-rash on the heel caps; the rubber on the toe tips and outer sole were unevenly worn; and the damage to the uppers looked suspicious because, well, it was suspicious. But I felt no pangs of guilt in my conscience as I do now as I returned home that night with my shredded shoes to plead my case for necessary replacements.
Ultimately, my shenanigans were successful and I got what I wanted, even though my parents surely recognized the absurd pretense. But my petulance isn't the point here. Rather, the point is that my Keds would have lasted a long, long time had I not resorted to focused, intentional destruction. The same holds true for my REI Flash pack. Like most gear these days, it is so well made, so durable, and so long-lasting that it has already outlived my childish wants. But the sin of covetousness is no longer a good enough reason for me to go out and replace it. And hopefully I'm past engaging in conscious, premediated savagery if for no other reason than I'm the one that ultimately pays the monetary price for it. So as Epicurus warned, I won't spoil what I have by desiring what I don't have, and will continue to carry my trusty, crusty bag for as long as it holds up. Desire be damned.
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