A Mary-Poppins bag, eureka! It got me thinking about how much space we really need and whether Olsen-sized handbags are necessary. I grazed upon this notion in a conversation about the minaudiere a few weeks ago but it’s a little ambitious to assume we as women will put down the luggage in favor of some weird ass shell-shaped boxes, for the everyday at least. I concluded that there’s something somewhat magical about roaming around without the entirety of your belongings strapped into your purse and onto your shoulder. The end of a posture fail, for one thing. But even if just for the sake of zen. Women often refer to the contents of their bags as their “lives” but should a mass of clutter confined into a big sack of your belongings really describe your life? Maybe you’re ultra-neat and crumbled paper receipts don’t infiltrate the insides of your purses but for the sake of my own sanity, I’ll assume you’re not and suppose that perhaps the answer to excess rummaging could be easily solved by a purse half the size. It’s just a thought though. Can you believe that two entirely different words can be cultivated by the differentiation of just one T? Weird.
Packing in Small
Today we hit two birds with one stone because on the one hand we will discuss the luxury of packing in small but on the other: an homage to the old installment called “Things that Look Like Vaginas,” this time, featuring three gold zippers and a dark hue of red. A period piece, if you will. Here, here to the alienation of an entire species. Glad we got this out of the way. On to the purse: When I bought this little guy–composed of three small pouches snapped together and featuring a long arm strap–I wondered whether all my shit would fit inside it. Figure two phones, one fat wallet, the obligatory arm adds, house keys, an array of tampons and chapstick. As it happened, they did. And then some. Anti-biotics, on the rare occasion: mascara, larger cuffs than I had anticipated and even nun-chucks in one instance.