Raw Drip

I had a little epiphany this morning as I was searching for my car keys in my handbag. That’s right, I said handbag – NOT purse. Note to any guy drips out there: a purse is the highly pragmatic but indistinct accessory that your mom used to carry; a handbag is a chic accessory chosen for a degree of praticality but largely selected for its relationship to an entire cohesive ensemble. Anyway, I digress…

Searching for my keys in the bottomless pit that is my handbag, I suddenly realized that I’ve made a serious error in judgment somewhere along my life’s path. Did it start with meeting Dick in high school? Or was it a more recent event? The birth of one of the children, perhaps, that signaled my demise? I think it probably started when I got sucked into the trend of the gigantic handbag.

As the big bag trend was on the rise in fashion magazines, I hesitated to embrace it. Those poor Olsen twins always looked as if carrying their 15 pound Hermés Birkin bags was really putting a strain on their little arms. Every photo of them toting their gigantic bags around NYC had them looking so delicately chic, I was worried a bag of that size would be grossly out of scale for me, too. But alas, my zaftig proportions came to my rescue ensuring that I’m able to pull off the look quite readily – and without stirring public concern about my waifishness.

The biggest blessing of the big handbag is also the biggest curse – that is, you end up carrying your stuff and everyone else’s personal belongings around with you, as well. Dick’s initial mockery of my latest fashion decision has reluctantly given way to respect for my handbag’s abundant capacity. No longer does Dick have to schlep his book under his arm when we go to the mall (because, God forbid he actually shop with me…). Now, he gleefully shoves his book, sunglasses & water bottle into my handbag for me to schlep. See? Problem. Solution. Dick is nothing if not a problem-solver.

The children have also caught onto my handbag’s handiness. They routinely shove toys, food, and drinks into its roomy compartments. Fishing them out of my bag’s hidden nooks & crannies provides countless minutes of entertainment for my fidgety pair in restaurants.

As you can see from the tone of my writing, the big bag is starting to lose its luster with me. The final straw was when I reached my hand into it this morning and began removing the contents in a desperate search for my keys. Looking at the pile of “stuff” on the chair next to mine, I realized my cherished black leather Tracy Reese handbag with fuchsia silk lining had somehow turned into a time capsule/garbage dump. Some of the things I found include:

There was more, but you get the point. My handbag has somehow morphed into a living, breathing “Me” exhibit featuring detritus representing all the pieces of my life, both present and recent past. On top of being a bizarre tour of artifacts of the life of a working mom, it’s also a peek into my confused self. How “together” can I really be when I’m carrying around this baggage day in and day out? And, what does it say about me that I carry around so many other people’s things? Is that really who I am? Am I a schleper, destined to carry everyone else’s burdens + my own? Or am I a poseur – pretending to be well-groomed and organized person on the outside, while I’m actually a big ole’ mess on the inside?

I think my error in judgement was opening myself and my bag up for invasion by others. Certainly with small children around, it’s impossible to remain an impenetrable fortress. Inevitably, you end up carrying around all of their literal and metaphorical baggage, as well as your own. But my mistake was that I didn’t make time to purge. Rather, I allowed my handbag and myself to be treated as the physical and emotional dumping ground for my entire family.

This morning’s purge of my bag’s contents was a long-overdue exercise for me. “Edit” is the word of the day now; it’s time to simplify. I’m going to edit my belongings, edit out some chaos, reduce my bag size to something more manageable, eliminate those things that distract me from my goals (and my keys) and encourage my bossy posse to carry their own darn crap around. Hopefully, in doing so, I can claim a very minor victory for burdened women everywhere.

Farewell, dear gigantopithicus accessorizus. Your abundant exterior charm was only outdone by your abundant storage capacity. I will miss you. But I’m bigger than you now and I need to move onto smaller and better things.