What I really want -- sorry I'm hung up on this -- is my old backpack. You know the one, scottjames: the one I took to France with us. Yes, that was more than a decade ago. But it was an awesome backpack. It was green canvas, and the pockets were the right size -- big enough for my graphing calculator, small enough that I didn't try to stuff too much crud in them or forget what was in there -- and it sat just right on my shoulders, and it smelled right from the minute I first put books in it, and I loved it. I mended it several times. Then I got home from college for a break, and my mom expressed horror that I had been mending a green backpack with whatever threads in my prepackaged college sewing kit I expected not to use for anything else -- pink and bright purple, mostly -- and a black backpack appeared at Christmas. And it's been fine, very serviceable, never dumped my stuff all over O'Hare or anything like that. But we never emotionally bonded. It was always a strictly functional relationship, me and this backpack.
And maybe I'm past the point in my life when I can love a backpack. Maybe a girl passes a certain age and her relationship with her backpack just loses its magic. I don't know. I don't think I'm willing to give up on finding my backpack yet. I may end up settling for a backpack, but first there will be a search. And the search will not be today, because while I have had four real meals in a row now, plus a snack, I'm still a bit shaky and not going to push the issue. After my return, there will be the search for the backpack. Hither, thither, yon, and possibly Bigdale if I get desperate and can't find anything at hither, thither, or even yon. Wish me good questing. Backpacks can be very elusive. Especially if you don't want Dora the Explorer on them.