The Bag Lady

I'm no fashionista. Most of my personal aesthetics, whether it be my clothes, shoes, make-up regimen, hair, or whatever, is almost entirely informed by comfort. I think I could contrive to look at least mildly fashionable if I tried, but the comfort consideration reigns supreme. If I wear a non-chunky heel higher than 1 1/2" for longer than 10 minutes, my mind immediately thinks of foot-binding. I started wearing thigh highs instead of regular pantyhose years ago because wearing them would make me think of girdles and corsets. The horror. The horror. So I still wear no make-up, wear draw-string pants, and shuffle around in my crocs when I go to Korea. My aunts used to make suggestions regarding my overall presentation, but they've pretty much given up. Even my cousin who used to lie to me about our supposed destination only to take me clothes shopping merely pats at my hair and shakes her head in disgust when she sees the crocs. Clearly, I am a lost cause.

Despite my cheap streak and overly drawn-out tortured process for making purchases over $50, I have been known to drop a pretty penny on items that were made to maximize comfort. I have a special soft spot for shoes. I have two pairs of battered loafers that have been with me for 8 - 10 years. They were never Christian Louboutins or Jimmy Choos even when they were new, but they cost much more than my usual $50 ceiling since they were made from a pretty well-known German shoe company. And I couldn't believe it myself when I came home with a pair of ballroom dance heels whose price would have made an impression on the more fashionable shoe fetishists because they were so comfortable and I figured I'd just wear them as regular shoes. But for the most part, much of my comfortable gear runs right around my $50 limit. And I sometimes on occasion make an exception with shoes, but it's pretty rare. And I certainly don't care whether they bear a designer label.

Bags, however, are another story. I have a bag complex. It developed during my married life. And my complex makes me a little sad. For it is a mark, however minor it may be, of some sort of damage and pain to my psyche. My inner voice barks: there was a time when you didn't have a bag complex. You were like teflon! So invincible! So, so, SOOOO secure! It all started when I got a bag from my mother-in-law with a designer label early on in our association. Even then, however, I just didn't think that she'd spend that much money on me. So I did some research on the telltale signs of knock-off bags and sure enough, it was not a genuine designer item. I wouldn't have cared if she told me that she bought me a cute knock-off bag, but I interpreted the events to mean that she was trying to pass off a knock-off as the real thing.

Many years later, I confronted her about it. She vehemently denied a duplicitous motive. And I believe her. There are so many things she doesn't bother denying or has played word games about and it is because she is guilty of bad acts, thoughts, or intent. But the damage had been done. I had vowed since that incident that I would only get nice bags for myself. I was worthy of a good bag, dammit, even if my mother-in-law didn't think so (or so went the internal narrative). The Other J has his own bag complex. And even though he knows I believe his mother, he still feels bad about the whole thing and he has a thing for me having only designer bags.

These days, I mostly carry around a diaper bag (non-designer). And was vaguely in the market for a new bag since I predict that I'll be carrying my diaper bag around for a good while still. When I'm vaguely in the market for an item, it can take anywhere from 6 months to 6 years to make a purchase. But I got a $100 coupon from a luxury goods store. And the Other J would prod me regularly on whether I got my new bag yet and hinted darkly about the expiration date on the coupon. When I casually mentioned it to a girlfriend that I wanted to go peruse the store, she came with me. When I didn't see what I wanted, I told her that I was going to go to another branch store 20 minutes away. She volunteered to come with me. I was mystified at the time, but she later said to me: "You've been talking about getting a new bag the entire time I've known you. I didn't think you'd actually get it unless I came with you." So I have a new bag. And I have guilt about how much I paid for it. And it's a light pink, so unlike my usual dowdy, solemn color palette. It's cute. But when I look at it, I know it's the result of a bruised ego and psyche.

I vow to carefully guard my mental health, lest I develop other complexes and spend us out of house and home.