CityView Magazine

on second thought Am I My Purse? I By Mary Zahran asked myself this question not long ago as I stood in the middle of the accessories area of a large department store. In order for anyone to understand fully the importance of this question, I must first explain the relationship I have always had with my purses. Unlike most women I know, I do not regard a purse as a fashion statement. Having decided decades ago that there was absolutely no possibility that I would ever be described by anyone as fashionable, I opted to go the utilitarian route where clothes and accessories are concerned. Don't misunderstand me. When I use the word "utilitarian," I do not mean to suggest that I wear stout, ugly shoes and a snug girdle. Nor do I dress like a female storm trooper, sporting an over starched man's shirt and a necktie. In other words, Roald Dahl did not use me as the model for Miss Trunchbull when he was writing Matilda. I do, however, own on the outside, because its inner arrangement symbolizes for me the orderliness (or lack thereof) of my life. For reasons that only a therapist could explain, I take great pains to organize items by function so that I can find and use them quickly and easily. Heaven help me, but the contents of my bag are categorized. It simply will not do for my first-aid supplies to mix with my make-up or for my keys to linger near my checkbook. Consequently, I have to look very carefully at the interior of a purse before I will buy it. It must have so many separate compartments and zippered pockets for me to find it acceptable (Can you say OCD?). Once, on a mad whim, I bought a giant bag with no separate compartments for each of my cleverly devised, everevolving purse categories. I managed to get through an entire day using this bag before I raced to the store to return it. Sweating profusely and suffering from shortness of breath, For me, shopping for a new purse is much like searching for the Holy Grail. It is a solemn and privileged quest, not to be entered into lightly. lots of black pants and "sensible" black shoes. What middleaged woman doesn't? I like to think that my streamlined, no-nonsense approach to dressing extends to my purses. When I find one that goes well with my wardrobe, I immediately purchase it and cling to it like a drowning person clings to a life raft. When you think about it, a purse is a kind of life raft. It carries us along on the currents of our daily lives, offering a host of critical supplies to keep us afloat—wallet, keys, phone, lipstick, notepad, and glasses. Sometimes, others want to share our life raft. That's how we end up with fifty business cards, six pairs of reading glasses, four hairbrushes, wet wipes, earphones, wads of used tissue, eye drops, extra socks, breath mints, batteries and stale Cheerios in our handbags. Our purses serve to center us. How many times have you said, "Just let me get my purse," before embarking on some outing? Who is the most important person on any trip to a mall or a theme park? It is always the person (usually a man) who volunteers to hold the bags. What is one of the first things you think to grab in an emergency? You guessed it— your purse! My relationship with my purse transcends these handbag scenarios and takes accessorizing to an entirely new level: I think of my purse primarily as how it looks on the inside, not 12 | November/December • 2013 I implored the bewildered saleswoman to take this unholy object from my hands. I still have not recovered from that unfortunate experience. By now, I think it's fair to say that you get the picture about the relationship between me and my purses ("This woman's crazy!"). For me, shopping for a new purse is much like searching for the Holy Grail. It is a solemn and privileged quest, not to be entered into lightly. At this point in my life, I have learned to be patient in my search—I always knew that the perfect purse awaited me somewhere if I just kept looking. Only recently, I found it in a department store. I think there was a soft halo of light surrounding it as I approached. My hands trembled slightly as I opened it. Looking inside, I saw several compartments with lots of zippers and snaps! I had to sit down and catch my breath. The excitement was too much. I could organize and categorize until the cows came home. At that moment, I was one with my purse. No, I was my purse. I was a black, soft leather tote with hand stitching, side pockets and numerous interior compartments. And best of all, I was on sale. CV Mary Zahran lives in Fayetteville and does not plan to shop for any more purses any time soon. She can be reached at maryzahran@gmail.com.

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