As a working class kid from Yonkers, I was indoctrinated from a young age with superstitions about handbags. Working class kids were told never to put our handbags on the floor because if we did, we’d lose all of our money. We were told to never-ever leave our bags unattended. Finally, we were told to never-ever, and I mean never, let another person touch our handbags. Having another person touch our handbags was akin to having a gypsy curse placed forever on our ability to amass wealth.
Forever is a long time. I chose my handbags the way I chose cars. My top-of-the-line choices were Coach handbags and Volkswagen cars. They were safe, durable, well constructed, and smack in the middle-of-the-road, inviting neither scorn nor envy.
Occasionally I tried bags other than Coach. To tell the truth, I went slumming. I never bought a bag at a yard sale. I didn’t want the remnants of owning another woman’s baggage. I did scrape the bottom of sale bins and grazed at tables where the bags of last season lay slumped in uneven piles like small-beached whales. This is where I bought the mother of all handbags. It was dark brown, almost black, and lined with fake leopard skin. It had four neat compartments within, a zippered liner for valuables and two well designed side pockets for phones, stray breath mints and the wanton tube of lipstick. Most important, this bag was large enough to pack entire wardrobe changes for three days and could be made heavy enough to dislocate my right shoulder.
I promised myself I would never take it to NYC on a
Heavy Baggage
by Patricia Vaccarino