I Keep—and Often Forget—a Waterproof Matchbox in My EDC Bag
It’s not something I use in any regular sense. I don’t light candles much. I’m not starting campfires on a Tuesday. Most days it just sits there, tucked into that narrow sleeve where pens go to disappear. But I remember the day I put it in. We were out at a state park, one of those places with metal fire rings and damp wood that never quite catches. Someone had a lighter that kept failing, and we ended up borrowing matches from a neighboring site like it was 1985. On the drive home I ordered a waterproof box without really thinking it through, the way you fix a small inconvenience before it fades.
The thing about carrying matches, even sealed up, is they don’t feel like anything important. They don’t have the presence of a knife or even a flashlight. No weight to them, no edge or beam. Just a little cylinder that rolls if you set it on a table. It doesn’t earn its keep most days, which is probably why it keeps getting demoted.
For a while it lived in my jacket pocket. That didn’t last long. It made a faint clicking sound against my keys, and I kept worrying about crushing it when I leaned against a counter. Then it moved to a backpack, where it disappeared into that quiet zone of things you technically carry but don’t really account for. I forgot about it until I was digging around for a charging cable and felt the ridged cap under my fingers. I remember thinking, oh right, that’s still in here.
There’s a kind of low-level argument that happens with stuff like this. Not dramatic, just a slow question that never quite resolves. Is this worth the space it takes up? The answer changes depending on how full your bag is that day, or how annoyed you are about digging past things you never use. If I’m packing light, it’s one of the first things to come out. If I’ve got room, it slips back in almost by default, like it belongs even if I can’t point to why.
I did try carrying it on my person for a week, just to see if that made it feel more justified. It didn’t. In a pants pocket it becomes noticeable in a way that doesn’t match how rarely it gets used. It shifts when you sit down, presses in odd ways when you’re driving. You become aware of it, which is the opposite of what I want from most of what I carry. I took it out one night and set it on the dresser, and for a few days after, I kept reaching for it out of habit, like I’d forgotten my watch.
There’s also something about the idea of “waterproof” that doesn’t quite line up with how I actually move through the week. I’m not out in the rain long enough for it to matter. If I get caught in a downpour, I’m going from car to building, not trying to coax a flame out of damp kindling. Still, that sealed lid has a certain quiet reassurance to it. Not in a dramatic sense, just a small sense that one more variable is handled, even if it’s a variable I rarely encounter.
I’ve ended up keeping it in the car more often than not. It lives in the center console now, next to a couple of napkins and a pen that barely writes. That feels about right. It’s close enough to count, not close enough to bother me. Every so often I’ll see it when I’m looking for something else, and I’ll turn it in my hand, check that it’s still tight, then drop it back.
The funny part is, on the few occasions I’ve actually used it since that first trip, it hasn’t been for anything that justified the original idea. Lighting a birthday candle when the lighter ran out. Helping a neighbor with a stubborn grill. Small, forgettable moments. But each time, there’s that brief sense of the object making sense again, like it’s proving it belongs, even if just for a minute.
I don’t think it will ever become a fixed part of what I carry every day. It’s too situational, too easy to leave behind. But it also never quite leaves for good. It drifts between places, between being essential and being excess, depending on what the day looks like and how much patience I have for extra things in my pockets.
This morning, when I noticed it was missing from the bag, I almost went back inside to grab it. Not because I needed it, just because I’d gotten used to it being there. I didn’t, though. I zipped the pocket and headed out, already thinking about something else. I’ll probably toss it back in before the next weekend trip, or the next time I remember that damp pile of wood that wouldn’t light. And then I’ll forget about it again, which is more or less how these things tend to settle into place.