Flawless Impirsenation

Flawless Impursenation

Mama's Got a Brand New Bag
Just when I had grown comfortable with my stylish new purse, my mother threw out a brand new challenge. She introduced the concept of purse switching. To my shock and horror I discovered that having one fabulous handbag is not enough. You have to stockpile purses and change them to match the events in your life. To this end, my mother presented me with a glittery, girlish, impossibly small evening bag and dared me to take it out on the road. So as I readied myself for a friend's housewarming party, I tried to decided which three extremely small personal articles I would take with me.

Fortunately, at times like these I can rely on the love and support of my guy who, for for some reason, seems to have a far better handle on the whole purse thing than I do. He took one look at my ensemble of low-rider jeans, tennis shoes and six wool sweaters (three words: February in Chicago) and declared the shimmering gold bauble was too much. I opted instead for a lovely vintage pocketbook that my dear friend Mrs. Buttons gave me for my birthday a few years ago. It's black patent leather with a delicate clasp and hinged opening. Although it holds more items than the little gold purse, it is still demure and feminine.

The most difficult part of the purse switching experience for me was having to remove my ID, cash and transit card from my wallet. I worried that I would forget to put one of these precious items back and would lose it forever. Happily, I managed to keep track of all my vital bits and pieces and at the end of the night I restored them to the safety of the “n” purse.

The last time I bought a purse, I was too young to vote. For reasons outlined elsewhere in this month's issue, I preferred to carry my money, ID and keys in a side pocket of my backpack. I persisted in this habit for several years until at last my mother took matters into her own hands and gave me a purse for Christmas. And so began a multi-year cycle; I would drag the gift purse with me through all the seasons of my life until it had begun to disintegrate. At this point, my mother would drop a subtle hint by presenting me with a new one, usually for Christmas or my birthday. Or her birthday. Or just to get me to throw the old one away.

The purses that she gave me all had similar attributes. They were all very stylish and hip because, after all, this is my mother we're talking about here. Each purse was fairly small and unfussy, black, fitted with multiple little compartments for the categorization and storage of various classes of items, and equipped with a long strap that could fit diagonally across my torso. I felt this gave me an added level of security lest someone should attempt to make off with my handbag. These are the qualities that I have come to associate with effective pursitude.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered at the beginning of my girlish purse quest that none of these things are the mark of a stylish purse anymore. Instead I found myself confronted with an assortment of sacks and bags in a multitude of colors. Some had short straps, some no straps at all. Some looked cavernous while others looked at though they would hardly accommodate my beloved lip balm. At last, I resolved to trek back to the most girlish boutique in my neighborhood and buy the first bag that caught my eye.

I settled on a duffel style, with two soft handles just long enough to fit over one shoulder. The purse is dark chocolate brown with pale pink handles and piping. On the front of the purse, in the same pale pink material, is a big letter “n” in what looks like an old-fashioned typewriter font. For the first time in many years, I looked at a purse and felt the stirrings of love.

I didn't stop with the purse either. I also purchased a wallet in lime green and aqua with a matching “n” on the side. The total cost of this one-two punch? A mind-boggling $58. For that kind of cabbage, I expected a huge reaction.

You know, they say that if you were able to lock a monkey in a room with a typewriter for an unlimited amount of time and just let it type away, eventually it would peck out the complete works of Shakespeare. The laws of probability dictate that even in seemingly random sequences, there occasionally appears some kind of order. Well, my friends, in terms of my clueless experiments in girlishness, the “n” purse is my monkey-typist Hamlet. I've stumbled onto a trend in full bloom. So charismatic is this little duffel bag that some of my most intensely girlish friends have actually emulated me and bought their own. The purses come in most letters of the alphabet, although my second cousin Queetie may be high and dry if she decides to follow the style.

The new purse experience has helped to erase the painful memories of perfume month, the disappointment of blond-highlight month. In fact, I think I may just have bumped myself up to a 1.5 on the girlie scale. Now, bring on the facials! It's time for my spa-tacular extravaganspa!