My backpack

I'm not your typical woman. I don't take pleasure in spending hundreds of dollars on designer purses. In fact, the mere thought of that gives me guilt. Instead, I live out of my backpack. I'm pretty sure I could make anything happen from my backpack. If aliens came down from the skies and attacked earth, I could survive for weeks from the contents of my backpack. I love that everything I own has it's own compartment in my backpack. I love the Swiss Gear people for making my backpack.

I love my backpack.

The semester from school has recently ended and I attempted to transition to a purse like every other perfectly functioning woman on the face of the earth. This (surprise, surprise) has resulted in an unusually high level of anxiety. What if I need the bandaids I keep in the front zipper pocket? Or what if I need a pencil and don't have access to my nubbies? What will I do if a patient comes in with Prader-Willi Syndrome and I don't have my medical encyclopedia? How can I survive without my beloved backpack?


I'm neurotic today because...
...I don't have my backpack.