Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [42]
I have four bags. Unbelievable, isn’t it? I have only four bags, but they are so delicious I can pass by the purse selection of any department store without the slightest temptation to be unfaithful. Each bag represents a time, place, or event in my life. Whether the moment is one of amazing good fortune or scrappy ingenuity, a reward for a job well done, or the celebration of an event, my bags mark the passing of time. These intimate friends go with me everywhere; they inhabit my personal space. They know my secrets and can be trusted to keep them. I feel about these bags the way a person in L.A. must feel about his or her car. My bags are the loyal friends that provide me with the things I need all day, tucked away in their little compartments, ready for the asking.
Big things come in big packages, but sheer joy comes in small ones. When I was helping my husband sort through his recently deceased mother’s storage space, I found my first—and smallest—bag. We had come across a garment box of old clothing, the kind with its own hanging rod. I was quite pregnant at the time and not all that interested in viewing Mrs. Shelton’s size-way-smaller-than-me clothes when a tiny flash of light from the depths of the box caught my eye. I took a quick look around the room to make sure my sister-in-law was pointed in another direction and reached in, blindly letting my hand fall onto the most perfect, hard, rough-surfaced rectangle known to the bag world. I pulled it into the bare fluorescent light of the room and it was like walking into Studio 54. Shots of glimmering light spun around the place as I turned the treasure over in my hand. Yes, it was encrusted with crystals; yes, it was small enough to fit into my palm; and yes yes yes when I slid the clasp over and up it opened like Venus on the half shell to expose the tiny little gold plate with the words “Judith” and “Leiber” embossed thereon. In marvelous addition, nestled in the rich black velvet were a delicate silver comb with a tassel, a silver metallic-leather change purse, and a smile-width mirror. Drop in a lipstick and a twenty and the possibilities would be endless. I caught a glimpse of my belly in the mirror and came back to my senses long enough to give up an antique end table in order to make the minaudiére (the word alone!) all mine. I cannot count the weddings this darling has been to, the awards ceremonies, the black-tie fund-raisers, I can’t count the times it has spun around a dance floor. Was the table worth a lot more money? It never crosses my mind; the bag has been a lot more fun.
When Peik was born, I decided I needed a Birkin bag to go with him. Have you seen diaper bags? They come in the most hideous patterns and sizes. Or at least they did fourteen years ago, before smart designers like Kate Spade got into the game. There was no way I was going down that ugly road. A diaper bag is fine if you’re throwing it in the back of a minivan where no one’s going to see it, but I was not going to walk the streets of New York pushing a stroller with one of those monstrosities banging against my leg. An Hermès Birkin would serve the same purpose, I figured; it was roomy enough to fit Peik in a pinch, besides the diapers and wipes and all that stuff you need to keep a baby clean, dry, and happy. Why not make Mommy happy, too? I couldn’t afford a new Birkin, so I started stalking the upscale thrift shops in New York City. I would stop by regularly and get to know the salespeople. If I were looking today, I would head for the Web,