Bag Culture
I used to not care about bags.
No – that’s a lie. I’ve always cared about the purses I carried. But I didn’t care about designer bags… until now.
Over the past year, I’ve met a lot of women who put a lot of stock in designer bags. Is that the latest Dior? Is that a real Prada? Are those little C’s or little G’s? Or little Q’s? Little Q’s?!? Knock off! Her husband bought her a bag. Don’t tell anyone, but she got that bag in LA and it’s not real, but you can’t tell, can you? They bought their mother this bag and now the whole world will know that she raised her children right and that they love her.
I used to laugh. How funny, that people cared so much about those things.
How easy life was when I didn’t.
I have a nice enough black purse that I found in a boutique at the Galleria for $20. Real leather, artistic shape. But it’s falling apart now. It’s on its last legs. And it’s the one I use the most. I need a new black bag.
I go to Kohl’s, looking for a pretty black bag under $25. There isn’t one. There isn’t a pretty black bag in the whole store.
I go to Foley’s, looking for a nice black bag under $30. Why do all the bags under $30 look so cheap to me now?
I go to Lord & Taylor, looking for something decent under $50. Dooney & Burke disgusts me. Coach is too old. Guess is too young. J Lo is too trashy. I used to be satisfied with Nine West or the Liz Claibornes on sale. Now… nothing’s the same.
Last night I called my boyfriend. He couldn’t talk – he was on the other line with another woman. “Sorry, baby,” he said. “That was Cathy. We were talking about bags.”
“Wha-? Why…? But… You never talk about bags with me,” I said.
He sighs. Even though he’s two time zones away, I can see him rolling his eyes. “Well, baby… You know…” he says.
“Yeah, I know. I know! It’s because I don’t know anything about bags! It’s because I don’t have a good bag, isn’t it? Is that right?” I scream. “DO YOU WISH YOU WERE WITH SOMEONE WITH A BETTER BAG?”
I throw the phone against the wall. It smashes into a million Taiwanese pieces that slowly slide to the floor. I throw my face into my pillow, sobs rocking my body. I cry until my heart breaks, all night long.
Now it’s a new day and I’ve had time to think things over. Now I know what I have to do.
The minute my kids go to their dad’s for the summer, I’m going to march myself straight into Wal-Mart and demand a night-shift job.
With this second salary, I will be able to save enough money to buy myself the tiniest, least expensive (but real! Real!) bag that Prada or Christian Dior has to offer. I will Scotch-Guard that bag and carry it for the rest of my life.
Then, everything else will fall into place. Then, finally, my life will be complete.
I have found the road to happiness. Follow me if you can.
