Purple Bag Lady

At a party last weekend I told my friend Audree how I’d bought a new purse.  (I’ve altered the spelling of her name for privacy purposes.  It’s really spelled Audrey.)  “Finally!” she exclaimed, before I could hold up my new tan clutch.  “You got rid of that old purple thing you’ve been dragging around!”  I assured her no, the aubergine purse I bought five years ago from the Hallmark store in the mall is indeed alive and well.

And then I made a mental note to get some new friends.

I don’t buy expensive purses.  It’s not about the money; as my husband would just love to tell you, I have no problem with spending.  I mean, just the other day I bought a cupcake for $7.00, and this sugary confection lasted less than three minutes.  (And no, I did not share it.)  But there are just some things that don’t seem worth it to me –  things like nice underwear or fancy jewelry.  Or purses.

The truth is, I don’t get purses.  The fall into the same category as maxi dresses and leggings:  they  always looks better on someone else.  Purses are the things you use to carry your junk around.  (Kind of similar to underwear, now that I think about it.)  Why invest in that?

Nonetheless, Audri had shamed me. On my next trip to the outlets I wandered into the Coach store prepared to make a purchase.   “Hello!” the young salesgirl chirped cheerfully.  “Looking for anything special today?”

“Well, yes”, I stammered.  “I—“

“Oh, hang on!”  she interrupted.  “Kelsey can help you, not me!”  (The words yousillygirl were implied in her last sentence.)  Out of nowhere, Kelsey appeared, wearing skin-tight jeans in spite of the ninety-degree weather.  All of a sudden my comfortable sundress felt cheap, matronly.  Were tight jeans now in style in the middle of summer?  When did that happen?

Jean-clad Kelsey asked me what I was looking for, and I explained I wanted a purse exactly the same size as the one I was carrying, preferably in the same eggplant tone.  “Oh”, she said skeptically.  “You want a pocketbook.  In purple”.

(Just what is a pocketbook?  Too small to hold a book, especially the giant John Irving I’m struggling to get through now.  But it’s certainly bigger than a pocket.  Oh, what a riddle.  And why does everyone keep trying to pigeonhole my purse into purple?  It’s really more plum-y.)

Together, Kelsey and I ransacked the store in search of the perfect purple pocketbook (her words, not mine).  Twenty minutes later, after I’d rejected every leather-buckled-adjustable-strap bag she held up, she admitted defeat.  “I think” she gasped, breathless from rummaging through all the shelves in low-slung denim, “that maybe you don’t want a new pocketbook.  Maybe you like the one you have.”

Embarrassed, I slunk out, clutching my Hallmark purse/pocketbook  to my chest and trying to avoid any more attention.  “Hope you come back and visited us again soon!” the first salesgirl sang out.  “Oh definitely!” I agreed.  “We’ll be back for sure!”  Then I remembered: I was alone.  I made a quick attempt to salvage the moment by tossing back a “Whoops!  I mean I’ll be back!”  She’d already turned away.

I wonder if Wal-Mart sells purses.  Or pocketbooks.  I’ll have to ask Audreigh.