The Bag That Is Eating My Brain

Illustration for article titled The Bag That Is Eating My Brain

The economy is in the shitter, people are getting laid off left and right, I can't stop thinking about a purse. A bag. Which costs $1,495.


I will never buy said patent leather handbag, designed by Alexander McQueen and called the "Elvie." Not only because it is ridiculously, exorbitantly priced, but also because it is sold out. Oh, if you have $2,160, you can get it in green, if you dare. Not that you should. Not that I would. But for some reason, I cannot get this bag out of my brain.

I'd like to say that it's just a harmless crush. Except the other day, I saw a woman walking in my neighborhood with a bag shaped rather like the Elvie and my body went tense. "Does that bitch have my bag?" I thought to myself, before remembering that I was being insane. But why, why do I think about this bag so much?

Maybe it's because — and this has been well-documented — I love bags. Maybe it's because, now that I work from home and don't have to lug a bunch of crap back and forth to an office everyday, I miss the ritual of packing a bag, of preparing your "necessities" for your daily journey. Maybe it's because I recently got this retro dress, which I feel very strongly needs a retro-looking old-lady pocketbook to go with it. (Yes, I've tried eBay.)

But actually, I think that sometimes when my brain gets fixated on some unattainable, inanimate object, it has more to do with needing a mental break. It's about fantasy, and dreaming, and being attracted to things that are pretty and/or shiny. Every now and then, I open a web page and stare at this bag — my bag, though I do not own it — and sigh. And then it's back to work. Please tell me you've been there.



Then you need to limit the magazines and advertisements you expose yourself to. This whole obsession with bags has been completely manufactured in recent years and, sorry to tell you, you have let yourself be manipulated like a chump. Even a few years ago, the focus in fashion magazines was not so much on bags. It was on clothes. Now the fashion industry has realized there is a much better profit margin with accessories and so they've manufactured this ridiculous bag fetish in American women. Now you can't even open a New Yorker without seeing page after page of bags. Most of the bags are patently ugly from the perspective of someone who has not succumbed to it. That bag looks like a shiny bowling ball case.

But a bag is just an empty container, like the role it plays in your fantasy. It is nothing but an empty placeholder veiling the fundamental lack in one's life.