The find
Recently I wandered into a clothing store where everything seemed pink or tweedy or fuzzy and the biggest size was a 2. I was a tad dispirited, but suddenly my eye was struck by…. Could it be? Yes -- the Perfect Purse glowed at me from a shelf. My life was about to be transformed.
Unfortunately, once I got home (yes, I bought it), I remembered I had been through the same temporary insanity many times before. In my 20s, it was falling in love (Wow! The Perfect Man!). In my 30s, it was falling in love (Wow! Looks like it could be the Perfect Man!) and landing a great job. In my 40s -- well, truthfully, I don't know what I was doing; probably dealing with the man (not the elusive perfect one) and the job (ditto) along with sometimes-perfect kids. These days, though, I yearn for the Perfect Purse. I fantasize it will make me more gorgeous and streamlined, transforming me from a harassed shopper ("Where did I put that list?" and "Did I even make one?" Unseemly, squirrel-like scrabbling ensues) to a sophisticated woman ("Oh, I only carry lip gloss, keys and a credit card." Unseemly, squirrel-like smugness ensues).
A new handbag makes us believe, for a week or two if we're lucky, that the perfect life is attainable. Then the purse mysteriously fills with crumpled receipts, assorted small change, the dog's leash and -- ohmigawd, there's my driver's licence. Once again we're forced to conduct an archeological dig to find our lipstick, cosily wrapped in Kleenex that breeds by itself. The search for the Perfect Purse has begun anew.
Trouble is, there are a million purses and they all have flaws (kind of like the Perfect Man, now that I come to think of it). The big ones are so capacious, you have to unzip every pocket when your cellphone rings. Medium-size bags speak of compromise, but inevitably the strap is too long or too short or the purse is too deep or too narrow, so your keys sink to some unknowable subterranean depth. A small purse is great for an evening out, as long as you don't accidentally kick it under the theatre seat in front of you and then can't see it because it's the same size as a chocolate-bar wrapper.
Most women can't exist with just one purse, which makes sense when you consider the range of functions we perform in the world: mother, grandmother, dinner companion, working woman, food-obtainer and pet-maintainer. Yet I'm still unable to shake the feeling that there must be one purse that will fulfil all my needs. It will match all my outfits, plus accommodate everything I need: wallet, keys, reading glasses, sunglasses, Kleenex, makeup, cellphone, date book, paperback, breath mints, antacids, lip balm, bottle of water, comb, plus any random stuff I don't recognize but probably need. Oh, and it has to drive my girlfriends into spasms of envy. Seems reasonable enough to me.
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Unfortunately, once I got home (yes, I bought it), I remembered I had been through the same temporary insanity many times before. In my 20s, it was falling in love (Wow! The Perfect Man!). In my 30s, it was falling in love (Wow! Looks like it could be the Perfect Man!) and landing a great job. In my 40s -- well, truthfully, I don't know what I was doing; probably dealing with the man (not the elusive perfect one) and the job (ditto) along with sometimes-perfect kids. These days, though, I yearn for the Perfect Purse. I fantasize it will make me more gorgeous and streamlined, transforming me from a harassed shopper ("Where did I put that list?" and "Did I even make one?" Unseemly, squirrel-like scrabbling ensues) to a sophisticated woman ("Oh, I only carry lip gloss, keys and a credit card." Unseemly, squirrel-like smugness ensues).
A new handbag makes us believe, for a week or two if we're lucky, that the perfect life is attainable. Then the purse mysteriously fills with crumpled receipts, assorted small change, the dog's leash and -- ohmigawd, there's my driver's licence. Once again we're forced to conduct an archeological dig to find our lipstick, cosily wrapped in Kleenex that breeds by itself. The search for the Perfect Purse has begun anew.
Trouble is, there are a million purses and they all have flaws (kind of like the Perfect Man, now that I come to think of it). The big ones are so capacious, you have to unzip every pocket when your cellphone rings. Medium-size bags speak of compromise, but inevitably the strap is too long or too short or the purse is too deep or too narrow, so your keys sink to some unknowable subterranean depth. A small purse is great for an evening out, as long as you don't accidentally kick it under the theatre seat in front of you and then can't see it because it's the same size as a chocolate-bar wrapper.
Most women can't exist with just one purse, which makes sense when you consider the range of functions we perform in the world: mother, grandmother, dinner companion, working woman, food-obtainer and pet-maintainer. Yet I'm still unable to shake the feeling that there must be one purse that will fulfil all my needs. It will match all my outfits, plus accommodate everything I need: wallet, keys, reading glasses, sunglasses, Kleenex, makeup, cellphone, date book, paperback, breath mints, antacids, lip balm, bottle of water, comb, plus any random stuff I don't recognize but probably need. Oh, and it has to drive my girlfriends into spasms of envy. Seems reasonable enough to me.
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