The Man-Bag Movement

Not that I need validation or anything, but that’s Terry Crews with his man-bag. Mine looks more rugged than his, but I wouldn’t say that to his face.

I admit it – I have joined the Man-Bag Movement.

I’m a disorganized person.  It’s a fact.  I have a horrible short-term memory, so the best way for me to find something is for me to leave things exactly where they last were, so I can use CSI skills to find them.  Nothing drives me crazier than not being able to find something because somebody moved them.

Growing up, I often clashed with my parents, particularly my father on this point.  It would get to the point that he would eventually swoop in and clean my room – which wouldn’t last long, because I would wreck the place again looking for the one particular adapter he put in some drawer.  The only one I could trust to put things in a place where I would put them was my brother, mostly because he and I shared a room for a long time before I got my own room, so he was well-practiced in the art of Respecting Older Brother’s Things.  While I pursued my Bachelor’s I couldn’t take the mind-clutter of keeping things neat (an apparent term of my continued “tenancy” at my parents’ place) and just paid him to clean my stuff every weekend.

Then I got married.  When I showed my wife how my workspace functioned and the best way to keep it together for me, she was horrified.  The first time I lost my wallet, she was not happy.  The 90th time I lost my phone, she nearly snapped.

“What you need,” she said, more or less, minus the strong language, “is a purse.”

At the same time, I was going through a clothing transition.  As a professional, I wanted to project a certain image with my look.  I had always taken my clothing for granted as a kid, mostly due to my schools always having a uniform policy.  In college, I noticed that clothing definitely made a difference.  I wanted to make the permanent switch to my “adult professional” look.

This wasn’t a problem.  In fact, as a big guy, my pockets were huge.  I was a professional beast on weekdays.  On weekends, however, my pockets bulged, pulling my pants down and even damaging the cloth.  It should be noted that the weekend is also the only time my wife really sees me.  Going out would take about a 30 minute head start for me to gather my bearings, let alone the possessions I would need.

A backpack would work, but my shoulders are much too broad to actually wear one.


So I bought a man-bag.  I thought it would be the same as having a cinch sack in which to dump stuff.  Not even close!  It’s not about the container, it’s about the structure.  Grabbing my bag is like putting pants on with pockets already loaded for the situation.  The main pocket has the wallet inside, the outside pocket fits the phone.  The portable battery has its own compartment so it’s not in the way of the reach for the wallet.


It feels nothing like a backpack.  The bag rests behind me until I swing it to my side to grab my phone like Indiana Jones reaching for his bag of sand – nothing like the hassle of fishing a wallet from a backpack.  When it’s time to go, I’m ready in seconds, waiting for my wife to be ready – as God intended.

(This kind of reminded me of high school too, because I used to wear my school-supplied laptop on my body.) I feel like if half the people who scoff at the use of a man-bag used one for three weeks, they would never go back.  First week to see the practicality, second week to use it on-the-go, third week to start exploring the other lesser-used parts of the bag.

If you want to look at the one I got, it’s here.

This is the obligatory paragraph where I admit my wife was right – and that not only was she right, but she was right while I was wrong – an important distinction.  It is apparently important that despite the win-win situation of me being more organized, I also acknowledge that on some scale there is an aspect of this situation in which she is the winner and I am the loser, and I acknowledge it here.

Oh shut up, guys, haters wind up single and alone.

Servings and Portions

Nothing takes the fun out of food quite like dieting – and nothing takes the morale out of dieting than paying attention to serving size in order to determine your portions.  Let’s face it: serving sizes are nowhere near actual portion size.  Companies are really good at shrinking those numbers. Is your frozen pizza too many calories?  Well, what about half a slice?  Well, from now on, that’s a serving.

I’ve lost some weight this summer, but sometimes I allow myself a cheat or two with one serving of something sinful.  Today I wanted some Chewy Chips Ahoy!

A serving of Chewy Chips Ahoy is 2 cookies.  Each cookie is like 2 to 2.5 inches in diameter. Has anyone ever eaten just two of these?  They’re the same size as a Ritz cracker.  I might as well not have any if I’m just going to eat two!

I had four.

A suggested serving size of eggs is one egg.  One.  Who has “an egg” without having other things with it?

– “What’s for breakfast?”

– “An egg.”

Nobody Happy


The phrase is Green EGGS and Ham!  People eat EGGS for breakfast!  Worse, eggs are PART of any respectable breakfast, let alone the main focus!  I crack two eggs into my fried rice recipe like it’s nothing!  I crack eggs into my french toast egg wash, and then I eat my french toast – WITH EGGS.  I haven’t used “egg” as a singular noun out loud in years!  I’ve used “egg” as in the substance… like you’d use water.  “Mix that with egg!”


Apparently you’re just not supposed to eat pizza. “Well… maybe just one…”  Think again.  You eat one slice of pizza, and nutritionally you’ve eaten too much pizza, and you’re going to die.  (Real pizza, so don’t comment about any kind of cauliflower crust garbage.)  Pizza parties are for athletic events because only athletes can burn away the awfulness that pizza does to your body.

But restaurant portions are so huge!  How can they possibly do this?!

Let’s say you order a small order of McDonald’s fries. (Here I did research, but I’m not going to cite it here because it was really easy to Google.)  That’s about 230 calories and about 50 fries.  That’s about 4.6 calories a fry.  That’s 230 calories for roughly 2.6 ounces of food.

Yeah that’s right.  Mix THAT with an egg!

I dare you to look at the nutrition facts of Ritz crackers… AFTER you’ve eaten a roll.  Make sure you’re sitting down… which you probably will be if you’re eating a roll of Ritz.

It’s enough to make me want to sleep until tomorrow just so I don’t eat anything.

If we as human beings are supposed to abide by these serving sizes, then that restaurant Flames would have its owners answering to so many cases of accessory to murder.  Even in the prime of my eating days in college, during which I gained maybe 150 lbs, I could not finish something from Flames.

b908ebd8f9e447996c4c06fcd4a3d0a5And then the waiter always comes back talking about “Leave any room for dessert?”  How do they sell ANY dessert?  Can someone explain to me how somebody can have dessert here without having it as part of their plan from the get-go?  Plus, what are you supposed to eat here?  THEIR CAKES?!


I refuse to Google the nutrition information, because I feel like even though it’s in my past, I might simply die just from acknowledging the number of calories that I ingested from this place.