Nora’s Story
I hate my handbag. I absolutely hate it. If you’re one of those women who think there’s something great about handbags, don’t even bother listening because I have nothing to say to you. This is for women who hate their bags, who are bad at bags, who understand that their bags are reflections of negligent housekeeping, hopeless disorganization, a chronic inability to throw anything away, and a ongoing failure to handle the obligations of a demanding and difficult accessory- the obligation, for example, that it should in some way match what you’re wearing. This is for women whose bags are a morass of loose Tic- Tacs, Ibuprofen , lipsticks without tops, little bits of tobacco even though there has been no smoking going on for at least of ten years, tampons that have come loose from their wrappings, boarding passes from long forgotten airplane trips, hotel keys from God-knows-what-hotel, leaky ballpoint pens, Kleenexes that either have or have not been used but there’s no way to be sure on way or another. This is for those of you who understand in short, that your handbag is, in some horrible way, you.
I realised many years ago that I was no good at handbags, and for quite a while I did without one. When I went out at night, I managed with only a lipstick, a £20 note and a credit card tucked into my bra. But unfortunately, there were times when I needed to leave the house with more than just the basics. So I bought an overcoat with large pockets. This, I realised turned my coat into a bag, but it was still better than carrying a bag. Because here’s what happens when you buy a handbag: you start pledging to yourself to neatness. You start vowing that This Time It Will Be Different. You start with a purse and a few cosmetics. But within seconds, your handbag has accumulated the debris of a lifetime. The cosmetics have somehow fallen out the shiny cosmetic bag, the coins have tumbled from the purse, the credit cards are somewhere ---- where? Where are they? There’s a half-drunk bottle of water, along with several snacks you saved from an airplane trip just in case you ever find yourself starving and unaccountably craving a piece of cheese that tastes like plastic. Perhaps you can fit your trainers into your handbag. Yes, by God, you can! Before you know it, everything you own is in your handbag. You could flee the Cossacks with your handbag. But when you open it up, you can’t find a thing: your handbag is a big dark hole full of stuff that you spend hours fishing around for. What’s the solution? I tried spending quite a lot of money on a handbag, the theory being that having an expensive bag would inspire me to become a different person, but that didn’t work. I also tried one of those Prada backpacks, but I stuffed so much into it I looked like a Sherpa. I gave up. I bought a tote. It’s the best bag I’ve ever owned. It’s yellow and blue—so it matches nothing at all and therefore, on a deep level matches everything. It’s made of vinyl and is completely waterproof. It cost next to nothing and I will never have to replace it because it seems completely indestructible. What’s more, never having been in style, it can never go out of style. It doesn’t work for everything, I admit: on rare occasions, I’m forced to use a handbag, one that I hate. But mostly I go everywhere with my yellow and blue vinyl tote. I love that tote.