No words have rung truer, not in my case at least. No sirriee. Some women invest in jewelry, I buy bags. My hard-earned cash. My choice. I don’t ask why you need that diamond that could direct a lost shuttle in space home, do I? So anyway, I buy bags. You know, heady but ‘drink responsibly’ kind of “buy bags”. Not a closet full of Birkins that’d shame Anu Deewan kind of “buy bags”, but enough to worry my parents, sister, husband, assorted friends and my personal banker.
The Sales Associate at Neiman Marcus loves me though. And the way the lady at Barneys lights up on seeing me is positively romantic. Even my husband doesn’t look at me like that. Not even on our wedding day. Well, he did this one time when our credit card statement came way under the average. In lieu of full disclosure though, I was laid up in bed with a sprained knee and was too groggy from the pain meds to shop online. No, those two months I will never get back.
You know how people remember their first kiss, first crush, first date, first love, first cigarette, the time their cherry popped, the first cigarette after their cherry popped (what, I like saying “cherry popped”!)… I have memories like those too. Those and the analogies I can quite easily (and disturbingly) draw between them and my bags. Really. Not kidding.
My first bag that I spent some major cash on (“major cash”, ha!! Oh you naïve, naïve, naïve me of past) was a Kate Spade. Sloppy and awkward, yes, just like a first kiss. It doesn’t come out of my closet any more, nor does it send a tingle down my spine, but it still does hold that warm place. Just like that furtive, awkward first kiss.
Oh, and in a moment of weakness I actually once owned a Fendi monogram. You read that right, a monogram. We all like to date those boys that our moms warned us against at least once don’t we? And it wasn’t long before Ebay met my Fendi Zucca. Good riddance to bad monogram I say.
I equate my red Chanel 2.55 to, you know, “cherry popping”! It was lust at first sight and there was nothing virginal about what I was feeling. And the somber Knot to the calm and satisfied feeling that comes from a looong drag (of a cigarette) that comes after, you know what!
There are bags that make me feel cheerful, impulsive and fun. Bags that make me feel feminine, soft and flirty. Bags that make me feel serious, powerful and ballsy. Shallow you say? But that’s just the whole point. It’s shallow and easy but it’s just one of those things that sing to me. On the days when you feel all bloat-ey and pms-ey, there’s just that perky arm candy (think Rahul Khanna, but as your favorite bag) to be had around the corner. And for days, when getting out of bed is a chore and all you want to do is lounge in a soft tee and well-worn pair of denims, there’s that handy bag again to perk up the look. Thank God for the multi-billion dollar bag industry.
So many more stories to tell. For now though, a prayer.
Are you there God? It’s me, Priyanka. I’d like *current object of obsession* bag, in that *current object of obsession* color please. Thank you.**
* Title from Sex and the City.
** That was a part-personal, part-fictional account, meant to be fun. Something to keep in mind.
Photo Credit: Polyvore
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