Today we talk about that personal mobile black hole we call a purse.
Whether you like them big or small, with pockets or not, zippered or buttoned or clasped --- it’s an essential lady tool to carry our stuff around. What should be inside? Probably your wallet, Blackberry, Mp5 and kikay kit. Perhaps a pen and a small notebook and a thin tome of short stories to read while waiting for the bus/train/boyfriend to pick you up. Girls reading this are nodding their heads knowingly, albeit a little too hesitantly.
I know, I know.
That’s what SHOULD be inside. But what is actually inside that bag, honestly speaking?
Melted Maxx candies you’ve had since October last year. 5-centavo coins that spilled out when you forgot to zip up your coin purse that one time... (okay, okay, lotsa times). Enough bus tickets to fake your way from here to Bukidnon. Movie stubs from your last gimmick with friends. A pen with a missing cap and ink on the inside lining of your bags. Kleenex tissues which might have been or have not been used. A handkerchief. No, make that two hankies because you forgot to take out the old one this morning. And wait, what’s that brown gooey thing that’s stuck on your lipstick cover? Oh, a melted Hershey’s Kisses you forgot to eat last Monday.
Am I closer to the truth now?
Just last week, my sister turned sour on me for a whole friggin’ day because she noticed that I stained my Zara bag with ink probably from a pen left uncapped. The bad thing is it seeped to the leather outside, so my soft brown leather bag now has blue spots on it like a brown cow with meningitis. I did feel bad about it, for a whole minute I was actually frowning. But when I checked if the strap is ruined (no), and if it can still carry my stuff (yes, of course), I just shrugged and let it go. It’s my bag and I let it go. My sister though was so stuck she was still talking about it when we got home. You guessed it right, she’s a bag-a-holic. Me, I’m the bane of bag-a-holics. People from Bag-a-holics Anonymous refer to me as the Boogeyman.
Seriously, I’m the type of person nobody should gift with a Louis Vuitton or a Birkin. Unless of course you’re my soon-to-find millionaire boyfriend who do not care if his less than OC girlfriend has yet again ruined another thousand dollar bag. The primary reason is obvious: I can’t preserve the pristine condition of bags. And the next reason is: I just don’t care.
Bags are bags are bags. They’re accessories to carry stuff around, not to hang on your arm or used as a weapon of mass envy. I need them big, I need them with lots of pockets and I need them industrial strength. It has to carry my laptop, my wallet as big as a clutch, my various gadgetries, my wrist-thick books, my purple umbrella and my first aid kit. If I could fit in my rubber shoes in there and extra underwear, all the better. I need them so spacious that Bursitis is in my imminent future.
I never understood the need for those cute tiny totes, just big enough to hold a TicTac. I never understood why your bag has to be the same color as your shoes. I don’t get it when people buy those bags with handles so short you can’t sling it on your shoulder. Why in the world would you want to immobilize half of your body in these mugger-infested streets? And above all things, I am baffled by people who choose to carry two small bags (one on the shoulder and one as a briefcase) and complain they have too many things to carry. At least make the other one a sling-on or a messenger bag to give yourself better range of motion.
True, I am not a fashionista, and proudly, probably never will be. I will always choose Logic over Louis Vuitton. Practicality over Prada. Comfort over Coach. Bursitis over Burberry.
It’s my curse as the Boogeyman of all Bag ladies.