I miss purses

Recently, I noticed a purse on a young Starbucks customer. It caught my eye because it was made of pretty floral fabric, a stunning relief after the line up of brown and tan designer bags that I usually see as I people watch (I mean, write). Nine women out of ten that I see is carrying a version of the identical purse. The same print—usually the company’s logo repeated over and over again so that the purse becomes a walking billboard. When did this happen? Sometimes it seems like every purse in America has been hijacked and replaced with a Stepford bag.

I didn’t know a Coach from a Dooney & Burke until I received my education on the streets of NYC from a thirteen year old niece. She announced at lunch that she’d counted thirteen Coach, and six Louis Vuitton on the arms of the New Yorkers or tourists. In an hour. And I’d thought she was admiring the hustle and bustle of Times Square. Girl has an advanced degree in designer.

I miss purses. A purse used to be a window into a woman’s personality. Were you the type to carry a small clutch with only a comb and a quarter to call home with? Did you carry a bright red nylon parachute fabric bag, big enough to double as an overnight bag? What wonders lingered in the bottom of the tapestry backpack style with its zippers and inside pockets? Try to imagine how dull Let’s Make A Deal would have been if every woman searching for a stray bobby pin or stick of gum was carrying a designer knock-off. Boring!

I can mark the phrases of my life by my purses. When I moved from upstate New York to Long Island at the end of sixth grade, the fact that I didn’t have a “pocketbook,” the lexicon used there, was the impetus for much teasing. The black velvet clutch I borrowed from my mother in desperation sent the culprits into overload. I was saved from complete social ostracaization by a Christmas present from a favorite aunt who came through with a stylish bucket purse.

Macrame shoulder bag, the first good leather bag, the slick patent (that was a mistake), the purses came and went, first useful then discarded, as life changed. Each one a statement on my arm.

So I protest the mindless adoption of the designer bag. Perhaps that’s why, when I sewed this week, I made another Miranda bag.

Picture to follow. Camera swears the battery is exhausted, although I know it just had a refreshing nap less than a week ago.

In the meantime, what’s your favorite purse?