Feeling the Years In a Fanny Pack
I just turned on my email auto-responder for the first time since 2017. What have I done in those eight years? How am I this years old? My knees creak when I walk up the stairs. I know why old people like myself prefer ranches.
A few months ago I tripped at the top of the stairs and bruised myself up pretty good. I thought it was an age thing. Then I realized that my house shoes were slides. I had my hands full, so I went down hard.
My body parts moan internally while I try to nurse them into action each day. Some days are easier than others. Flexibility is not my strong suit, but I do go to yoga twice a week. It could be worse. It could be barre, whatever that is.
I eat very well, and I don’t lose weight. This is getting older in a pistachio shell. Well, if I don’t eat starch, I do lose weight whether I work out or not. Put down the rice, Karen. Sometimes, there’s only so much kale a man can eat.
I’ve never worn a fanny pack, but I’ve also never thought they were uncool. I think they rip. They are like acid-washed jeans. I don’t want them, and I won’t get them, but they are cool. So was the vest I got at Chess King at the Buckland Hills Mall in college with my stepbrother. I once wore it out without a T-shirt underneath. Still not sure about that move. My arms were stacked at the time, though.
I used to do that thing as a man where you carry all the grocery bags inside in one trip. Now, I get Instacart and Fresh Direct to deliver my groceries and take three trips in and out of my house, carefully making sure the storm door closes so my cats don’t try to run away. They would never leave me.
I couldn’t wake up past seven AM if I tried. I’m usually in bed dawdling before nine PM. I don’t yet have reading glasses. My beard gets whiter every second. I sometimes drive with no sound on in the car. On a younger note, I still wear a COVID wardrobe most of the time. I have six pairs of the same shorts from Bonobos in different colors. I have like eleventeen of the same T-shirt from Fresh Clean Tees. I don’t own a tweed jacket or a pocket watch.
I sometimes wonder what actually goes into a fanny pack when done right. Keys, wallet…that already seems chunky. Binaca for sure. Maybe some Purell. I feel like a fanny pack is like a Trapper Keeper in that it holds way more than you think it would.
How in the world do I still get a stray pimple at this age? These pustules trashed my adolescence like a Beastie Boys hotel room in the late 80s, and they still won’t just leave me be. I don’t use brown Clearasil anymore, though.
I miss having a Walkman.
© Jonathan Greene, August 16, 2026
