Purse Predicament

"You made an excellent selection," she says to me. "This is the hottest handbag we have right now."

Apparently after a certain dollar figure, it's no longer a purse, it's a handbag.

I'm standing in the middle of the Coach store on Hilton Head Island. I must have circled the store 12 different times trying to get the feel of which handbag works best for me: it must be classic, it must be both summer and winter, and it absolutely must be big enough to carry a book.

I look around the room. Another perky blonde has the only remaining bag tucked under her arm as she peruses the rest of the selection. "See? We can't keep them in stock," the sales lady chatters. She pries the bag out of my hand and begins wrapping it in layers of Coach printed tissue paper.

"No leather cleaner is necessary, just mild soap and water."

"So don't stick it in the washing machine?"

The sales lady drops her jaw and wraps both arms protectively around the handbag. "Don't you dare!" she almost-screams. People turn and stare, including the other perky blonde. It was only then the sales lady sees my smile and understands I was teasing. "Whew! I almost refused to give you possession of the bag! You have quite a sense of humor there."

Well that's a nice way to put it.

In the car I unwrap the tissue paper enough so I could smell the leather. It smells... expensive. Even with the great deal I got on my purchase, it is still the most amount of money I've ever spent on a purse handbag.

Back at the beach house, I sit at the table with my old purse and my new handbag and clean everything off before transferring it. I lean back in my chair and stare triumphantly. The bag looks good. Very good. And it's mine.

But when it came time for dinner and I had to drive to the store, I transferred everything back and took my old purse. Even in the posh seaside town, I wasn't ready to make my debut as one of those girls. The Louis Vuittons, the Coaches, and the Dooney and Burkes are statements. They have the stigma of wearing the dollar sign on the outside and I wasn't sure I was ready to be defined by that.

Three days later and back in Atlanta, the bag has only changed kitchen tables. It's become a centerpiece. I was leaning against the counter eating a slice of cake and admiring my bag when the phone rang.

"How was your trip?" Erin asked.

"I went shopping."

"Ooh! What did you buy?"

I inhaled. "A Coach bag."

Erin was silent for a few seconds. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

In her reaction everything I feared was confirmed. People would look at me differently. Strangers would silently judge me. She has that because she wants to be trendy. It doesn't matter that it's pretty and it smells good and that I like it.

This morning I left for work and the bag is still sitting pretty on my kitchen counter-- I justified it with it was raining outside. The dog sat by the door and watched me leave. I knew the brown leather and the Coach signature Cs would match her fur perfectly. She shook her head and the charm spelling "Coach" swung back down to the bottom of her neck.

Apparently I have no problem dressing my dog in a designer collar.

Baby steps.