You might be aware that I recently acquired a Modalu Pippa handbag. The reason you might know this is that I have been flaunting it rather shamelessly, constantly, brazenly since the moment I got it. I have been lusting after this bag for about three years, something I’m sure you can all relate to (if not the bag, then the lust, certainly). I finally received it from a slightly startled UPS man, and was duly enthused.
Now, most people would remain happy with their purchase, but it’s generally hard to keep up the kind of excitement expressed when you just get something, every time you see and use it. My particular brand of excitement mellowed into a form of appreciation heretofore reserved for pets and family members. I personified it. I don’t know how this happened, it wasn’t a conscious decision, but my purse’s name is Purse, and it’s possible I speak to it occasionally.
Just normal things, like, “You sit there, Purse; can’t have you getting your feet dirty.” Or, “Don’t fall on your face, Purse, you have to stand up and show everyone your hardware.” That last one seems much dirtier as I type it than it did setting my purse next to me in the restaurant.
So far it hasn’t said anything back.
Now, I am supremely aware that this is not normal behavior, but also that there are much stranger things I could be doing. Just look around the next time you’re stopped in traffic. And I can’t honestly say that I want to stop. Not that I’m desperate for leather clad friends with handy zippered pockets, but, for someone who usually relishes having a variety of clothes, jewelry, and shoes that I like, I am really enjoying having one thing I love all the time. (Anyone who would like to draw comparisons or juxtapositions to my twenties and the evolution of my romantic ideals, may.)
I can only hope that one day you find one thing, or dare I say, one person, that makes you light up every time you see it. And I promise not to judge you when you ask it what it thinks of your dress.