I skulked around the purse section at Marshalls. I peered through racks of leather straps willing this woman to put down my purse. She had nine purses in her cart. How come she had to pick up mine?
It wasn’t exactly my purse. Yet. But I saw that red bag three days before and I didn’t buy it because I was worried it wasn’t red enough or it wasn’t big enough and I wasn’t really committed to buying a purse yet anyway and I thought $48 was too much to spend for a purse or maybe $48 wasn’t enough to spend on a purse but mostly I didn’t buy it three days ago because I hate purses so much.
Woo boy. Maybe I should call Military OneSource about this. I’m sure they have a professional someone to discuss this crisis.
Because I am 41 years old and I am still not a purson. I still do not speak the language of the purse. This is a problem. Men are supposed to be able to communicate in the idiom of box scores and RBIs. Women are supposed to speak the language of the purse. I do neither.
It sure seems like every other military wife can talk style and size and quality of a potential handbag. I jiggle the change in my pocket as they claim to feel naked without a purse. When I go home I am forced to observe the women in my family bond over purse shopping in a ritual akin to nit picking and back scratching among other primates.
I can handle that. It’s only when I get around women speaking in the dialect of the luxury handbag that I freak. Those women know why you would spend hundreds of dollars on a bag with someone else’s name on it. They can tell a real designer zipper pull from a fake one. They not only know the name of that designer handbag that costs $15,000, but they could recognize it across the tarmac in a snowstorm that would close the Denver airport.
Not me. That bag could be strapped into the seat next to me on the plane and I would not even notice. I might even think it was put there for my convenience to catch my empty soda can and used yogurt cup.
I’m pretty sure this is a bad sign, a tick against my femininity, a marking I am not as womanly as I think I am, not as girly as I ought to be.
My girlfriend Dawn says she’s fine with her purse, she only feels this unfeminine when she tries to buy a blazer. She’s afraid every other woman takes one look at her shoulders and runs to the bathroom to scream with laughter about how she is built like a man. That’s OK, because those gals are all already in there hysterical over my purse.
I know I ought to be content to keep on keepin’ on, to carry my money in my pocket, my keys clipped to my jeans. But some occasions do require a purse — the right purse — a purse that is of the variety that tells the world I am a woman’s woman and that I speak the language of women.
My daughter says that’s my entire problem. “You can't impress purse people. They know each other already. They recognize each other's markings,” Kelsey said. “Just do like I do and pick a purse you like. Gaaah. I’d think you’d know that by now.”
Yeah, so do I. But I keep hoping. I keep wishing someday I would stalk the aisles of the world, proud and free and female in my complete confidence in my purse. Until then, I guess I’ll have my Military OneSource magnet to comfort me. Sure wish I had a purse to keep it in.
A 19-year military spouse, Eckhart is a syndicated columnist with CinCHouse.com, a published author and the host of “The Jacey Eckhart Show,” www.cinchouse.com/Jacey. E-mail Eckhart at jacey1@earthlink.net.
Disclaimer:
The appearance of hyperlinks does not constitute endorsement by the U.S.
Air Force of this Web site or the information, products, or services contained
therein.
