Fanny Packs Over the Years: These Are Our Stories

    We fanny packs lead fascinating and extremely demanding lives, but recently the pressure on our straps has become too much to bear individually. It’s finally time to cinch our bands together. It’s time to share our stories.

    In all my years, I’ve never seen anything quite like what is happening to fanny packs today. And, trust me, I have seen the world. I’ve hiked the Grand Canyon and vacationed in Fort Lauderdale. I’ve witnessed countless Hampton Inn all-you-can-eat breakfast buffets. You know how many banana-nut muffins I can fit inside me on a good day? Seven! Eight, if you squish ’em. Point is, I supported my owner as he ticked off every item on his retirement bucket list. And yet last week I was given to a grandchild because she thought I looked “vintage.” It was meant to be my turn to retire.

    Back in ’94, I was a fucking rock star. When that photo was released of me and the Rock—or, should I say, my rock—it was us against the world. Then, years later, when our iconic pic resurfaced, we were back on top again, baby. Articles were written about us. Halloween costumes imitated us! But now? Nothing. I feel like a joke. Do people even remember me? I mean, what’s the point anymore? I made him. But I went from celebrity fanny pack to has-been sad sack in the click of a buckle.

    Hiii, friends! So I started raving pretty young on this party girl’s hips. I thought that we had something special, love even, but that must’ve just been the Molly. Because the moment she found a shiny new pack I was shipped off to Goodwill. But that’s where my true spiritual journey began! I was bought by a hippie on her way to Burning Man, and it changed my life. You, too, would never be the same after being strapped onto someone’s naked body for a desert adventure. Throw in some interactive art and mushrooms that accidentally fall out of a baggie inside you, and boom—instant ego death and union with the universe! Long story short, I’m studying psilocybin-based therapy now, and have spots open in a clinical trial. Anyone interested?

    I don’t really share much. My daughter says that I have “trauma” from being “overstuffed and underappreciated,” but in my day you would just do the work and wouldn’t complain until your straps snapped! Granted, mine have come close on family amusement-park outings when the kids hang on to me to get their mom’s attention. But that pain gives me a sense of purpose. Sure, it would be thoughtful if she stuck a ziplock bag in me to dispose of the churro-encrusted baby wipes when I’m already nauseated from the spinning teacups, but being a mom is hard! So, yeah, I’m completely fine. And I am not unravelling at the seams, O.K.? You can stop asking!

    I am done being used as a purse but constantly being called a “fanny pack.” Just own up to it already! When he lengthened my straps and wore me crossbody right next to his heart, I thought it was my ticket to the big time, to the world of designer handbags who get taken to fancy dinners and the opera. But then he took me only to the grocery store and on dog walks. He even started storing Milo’s poo bags and cod-skin treats in my main pouch! I help this ungrateful man through the daily grind, and still he refuses to put labels on our relationship. Wanna bet he would if I had a Gucci or Prada label?

    Things are kind of going really well for me. Madison and I hit a million followers on TikTok last week! But, even with all that critical acclaim, sometimes I feel like a total fanny hack. It’s like I’m just a prop to promote this artificial version of Madison, or whatever. Like I’m used only to project a manicured image on social media. But I have depth, O.K.? And, like, I thought this relationship was more than that. Sometimes I wish she had never found me in that Hype House in the first place.

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