Mount Olympus, here I come

I'm afraid it's true. I swore it would never happen. I've mocked them, unkindly. But as I jogged home from work yesterday, I found myself thinking the unthinkable: I need to buy a fanny-pack.

I know what you're thinking--she's gone mad. Fanny packs are the domain of the sweaty Disneyland tourist, not the 30-something urban dweller. But let me explain: I really need something to carry my crap in.

See, I have this new exercise routine--finding that I was rarely making it to the gym in these months of a new baby at home, I decided that the best idea was to do it on my commute. I might as well make my commute to work work for me, right? So I have a veritable triathalon every day of walking to work, biking home for lunch, biking back to work, and running home. What you suspect is true--the result is that I cannot keep track of my crap. Bras left in my office, cell phone god knows where, always having to carry my keys. You get the picture.

I was muddling along through all of this pretty well until yesterday, when I found myself jogging home with keys in one hand and an official looking black case in the other. The Greeks, they ran for 26 miles with objects in their hands, but that was the flame incarnating the spirit of humanity, or something. I was like a CIA agent (only recently returned to field service and therefore very sweaty and out of breath) running off to make a drop with my little mini black briefcase. Only I wasn't carrying state secrets--I was hauling home my breastpump.

So with keys in one hand and breastpump in the other, I plodded home, thinking to myself that there has to be a better way. I need to free up my hands so I can really get my stride going. I obviously need a fanny pack.