Hello dear subscribers,
Thanks for subscribing! This way, I get to call you "subscribers" rather than the all too-familiar "y'all" or "you guys." But who knows, maybe we'll switch it up for fun sometimes.
So, you guys, I had a colleague a few years ago whose purse was stolen and instead of just using any one of the several purses you'd expect a woman living and working in NYC would own, she said that that stolen purse was a vintage leather shoulder bag from her mom and the only purse she owned, so until she could afford to get the one she really wanted to replace it with (it was an APC purse that eventually won that title), she used a small black plastic grocery bag to carry her belongings to and from work. At the time this was the most practically patient thing I have ever seen a human do in the name of fashion. If it sounds crazy to you, keep in mind this girl did not own many things (which I suppose is ideal for someone who lives in a studio apartment in the East Village)
This is only relevant because I think of this whenever I think about the things I own. The other day, I — for no rational reason — bought a clutch purse. This kind of goes against all the Marie Kondo'ing I've been trying to implement otherwise with my material and especially sartorial possessions and yet there it was, all "blush pink" and supple leather and $29. I will pay good money for supple leather goods.
Honestly, I've been wrestling with the appetizing nature of fashionable elite-approved philosophies (like prescribed minimalism and juicing) and the "You are not your IKEA coffee table" rantings of Fight Club's Tyler Durden. Essentially, they both lead to throwing away a bunch of stuff you don't need but in varying attitudes of pretension or nihilism, in kind. I mean overzealous nihilists are pretty pretentious, but I also think that's one of those things that the more you get into it, the more it invalidates itself? I don't know. I'm thinking too much into it.
Anyway, this clutch. It's fine. It's a nice simple, slightly oversize design that carries everything I need. And I thought — Oh, how perfect, a small pretty pouch that holds all my things and makes me look slyly put together and have a great excuse to always have my hands full because I'm just so busy. Ask me to do something and I'll just hold up both hands holding things and shrug like, Ayayaye, how am I gonna get all this done!
Clutch girls always seem so chic to me, like at any moment they're on their way to some hotel bar or a fancy restaurant with those tiny chairs meant to hold your purse. This is the woman who buys the same shade of red lipstick over and over and has long ago found her best hairstyle and doesn't resort to chemicals in pursuit of "self-expression." If it sounds like I'm describing a J Crew catalog you would not be far off. But I do not want to be a J Crew catalog. I'd like to be able to regularly afford things in a J Crew catalog and then spend my money elsewhere. It turns out this is a direct metaphor for this new clutch and myself.
Here is the thing about using a clutch as a purse: there are no handles. I mean, that's the nature of a clutch. You clutch it. But this is much more inconvenient than you'd initially anticipate. It's not at though you can just slip it over your wrist or some other appendage to freely use both hands — one hand is going to be your clutch hand, much in the same way that when you eat a burger and/or french fries, one hand is going to be the burger/fry hand, leaving the other free to do things like beep-boop on your phone or whatever. It is, in part, handicapping yourself in the name of fashion.
Just walking around the neighborhood to do common errands, a clutch proved to be extremely demanding. My dreams of discreetly and functionally being able to fondle buttery leather all day were dashed as my sweaty-palmed mitts kept taking turns holding it like a brown-bagged lunch at my side. And then I'd hold it skateboard-style, one-handed cradling the bottom. It would end up in my armpit if I needed to use both hands (one of which was feebly T-Rex'd on account of having to keep the clutch under my armpit by tension). But an armpit is no place for quality leather goods, heat-setting BO and sweat stains into pale pink leather.
So I'm left to walk around with a floppy football of my important belongings like money, house keys, government issued ID, lipsticks, and tomato jam, gruyere and arugula focaccia bread sandwich, terribly aware of how awkward I feel and how questionably not-actually-that-chic I may appear. Mostly, I'm convinced that anyone I pass who glances my way for a moment is thinking, "The fuck is she swinging around a wet sack for?"
Who knew a clutch could be the source of such low-grade anxiety? It basically felt like navigating a party where you feel overdressed and don't know what to do with your hands, and you've probably misplaced your drink a dozen times but you don't really mind because it seems to give you purpose to keep finding it.
But let me tell you — eating a premium sandwich like this one from a dainty bag is a pretty great ice breaker. Not enough parties (I go to) are well stocked in the snack area, generally in favor of a BYOB agenda or a fridge full of whatever the cheapest beer is at the nearest bodega. If you want to be the life of the party, just casually zip open your oversize clutch purse to reveal a sandwich and take nibbles amid polite conversation. Not only will you come off as a woman of intrigue, you will also get to enjoy a sandwich. It's a guaranteed Craigslist Missed Connection (Lady With Sandwich Purse: Didn't get to talk to you but couldn't help notice that you were eating a sandwich out of a purse. Call me).
If you've read this entire accessory-laden rambling, I applaud you and I hope you stick around for more potentially meaningful words on other inanimate objects that have made me doubt myself as a human. For those of you who don't immediately click Unsubscribe, if you have topics/questions for me to email a bunch of strangers about, I'd maybe might be willing to expound upon them.
Until next time!
Your pal on the Internet,
Sable