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Finding My Bag
Nothing's better than Ashley Watson's recycled leather bags
I've said it before: I have an obsession with bags that is in no way matched by my own collection. Rather, I'm currently bagless, a sorry state. So I'm desperately seeking the Susan of bags: hip, fascinating, street, unforgettable.
Last summer I gave into the hype and bought a super-cheap Devi Kroell bag in gunmetal-colored plastic from Target (they don't have them anymore; just the remainders that nobody wants). But weeks later, on a flight to do a reading in Seattle, it caught on some metal protrusion under the seat. For weeks afterward, I carried it anyway, a rude tongue of fake python sticking out its side. Crazy glue repaired the chad, but it was too late. My sense of the bag's dependability was severed by its inability to withstand a single plane trip. The plastic cheapness of the bag had betrayed its fancy form.
There are manbags to be sure, but I don't know many men who share the same attachment that some women do to a bag. To some of us, a bag is a badge of honor, pet, flag (I fly my colors off my shoulder), confidante (keeping your secrets safe), bank (here, you want some money?), vital assistant, and constant companion. It hangs off your shoulder as you navigate the city on foot, helpfully swinging out of the way. When you're driving, it sits next to you and never chatters.
Last summer I gave into the hype and bought a super-cheap Devi Kroell bag in gunmetal-colored plastic from Target (they don't have them anymore; just the remainders that nobody wants). But weeks later, on a flight to do a reading in Seattle, it caught on some metal protrusion under the seat. For weeks afterward, I carried it anyway, a rude tongue of fake python sticking out its side. Crazy glue repaired the chad, but it was too late. My sense of the bag's dependability was severed by its inability to withstand a single plane trip. The plastic cheapness of the bag had betrayed its fancy form.
There are manbags to be sure, but I don't know many men who share the same attachment that some women do to a bag. To some of us, a bag is a badge of honor, pet, flag (I fly my colors off my shoulder), confidante (keeping your secrets safe), bank (here, you want some money?), vital assistant, and constant companion. It hangs off your shoulder as you navigate the city on foot, helpfully swinging out of the way. When you're driving, it sits next to you and never chatters.
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