Baggage

I think that I chose very well in a husband.

This is not to say that he necessarily chose well in a wife. But what's done is done and we all must live with our choices.

Jim is a sophisticated, beautiful, brilliant man who is pure in his heart and kind in his soul. And while he comes with little to no baggage, there is an age difference between us. Not a headline-making one, but one that sometimes catches the attention of people in restaurants. And one that I have to field questions for far more than I ever anticipated.

Like his father, Jim's hair started greying shortly after college, and, like my father, I have a baby-face. So, while checking into a Manhattan hotel on our very first trip together, the concierge looked at me and said, "So what are you, twelve?" To which I responded, "No, but this is the last time I'll wear this hat." His rudeness got us upgraded to the honeymoon suite, so fielding nosey questions isn't always in vain. But they are always directed at me. All Jim's ever gotten was a fist bump.  But I could see how age differences can be a problem in a marriage. Everything can be a problem in a marriage. Although I don't think a single person heard the news of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes' divorce and said, "I bet it was the age difference."

Regardless of how little it affects our relationship (except when I get paranoid and send him to the doctor, who continually reports back that Jim is a case study on human health), it's certainly something we carry around. And people probably make assumptions about us when they see us in the mall shopping for purses. Now, in all fairness, it might be that they are questioning why a very patient man with ten purses hanging off either arm is standing next to a cursing woman, or they may be wondering how many years apart we are in age. It's always difficult to tell what people are thinking. Far easier to assume. Either way, we certainly got looks last weekend while trying to solve my bag crisis.

My husband believes I have an unhealthy obsession with handbags. And he is right, but not for the reason he thinks. Unlike his own obsession with comic books and Star Wars trinkets, I'm not actually trying to amass a collection of notoriety. I'm trying to end the madness.

Here is a little-known fact about women: we keep buying purses, not because we love buying them (we do, of course), but because we are always trying to find the perfect one. The purse to end all handbag buying for good. I buy a purse I think will work, only to carry it for a few months and discover the new thing I hate about purses--or the new thing I now know I need in a purse--so that when I buy the next one it will be the last one.

I currently carry four bags most all days of the week: 1) A purse. 2) A professional bag. 3) A backpack. 4) A diaper bag.

Let's unpack this, shall we?

1. Purse. The perfect purse for me would include the following characteristics. Characteristics, might I add, that I've come to learn over ample handbag experience.
    a) One strap. This is crucial, because if there are two straps, one is always falling off the shoulder, especially in winter when bulkier coats lead to inevitable strap-slip. I will, however, accept two smaller handles and a longer strap. I'm not a fascist.
    b) Structure. I love a good, floppy bohemian bag as much as the next granola-eating hippie, but try, just try to find your pen.
   c) Magnet closure. Zippers are the difference between getting the call and missing the call.
   d) Fun color. I'm not picky about leather or canvas. Skin an alligator for all I care. What I need is a color that isn't black or brown. I need yellow. Teal. Pink, if it's not annoyingly so. Print, if it doesn't look like grandma's curtains. Just anything that says, "I'm not trying to match my shoes. Aren't I spunky?"
  e) Big, but not huge. There's a fine line between a purse that holds all my stuff, and a bag that looks like I'm running away from home.
  f) Reasonably priced. I say this not to imply that I'm unwilling to shell out whatever it takes for a bag that meets my rigorous standards. But because I know in the back of my mind that the bag won't measure up, it just won't, I try to be slightly reasonable with bag purchases. Please keep in mind that my idea of reasonable and my husband's idea of reasonable are depressingly different.

So, mister know-it-all, does such a purse exist? No it does not. I can get most of those things, but not all. And I convince myself that giving in on d) and f) are ok because a), b) and e) are what really matter to me. But then three months in I discover that it's actually d) and f) that matter and the others are just perks. And it goes on like this, season after season.

Can I mention one other thing? It is truly frustrating to bend down to pick up your child and have your purse, that is securely on your shoulder, come swinging around from the back of you to the front of you, bashing into you and your child while your keys and phone go flying. And there is no strap length that this is not a problem for, so it's either get rid of your child or staple the bag to your armpit. I'm weighing my options.

2) Professional bag. Ok, so this is my most diverse bag, as I use it for teaching, work at the university and school. So depending on the day and what I'm headed to do, I have to change out a series of graded papers, folders of clients or text books. But, because this bag also has to fit my laptop and charger, I allow it some leeway on the things my purse can't have.

3) Backpack. Why, Meg? Why such insanity?! Shush. This one is crucial. It's for gym clothes. I'm fortunate enough to work at a place that has an incredible, and free-to-use, gym. It must be said that my recent need to work out (most) every day is something I am doing for mental health. Not that you should worry unduly about my emotional state, but raising a child while working on a dissertation is stressful enough, not to mention this current purse dilemma I'm having, so yes, I need to spend the last hour at work running, spinning, lifting or punching away frustrations. It's working wonders. But, this means I need another bag in which to put a pair of tennis shoes, socks, water bottle, workout clothes, ear buds, a towel and a sports bra. And this can't possibly fit in my non-enormous purse, and isn't professional enough for my professional bag, so I must carry a backpack. Satisfied?

4) Diaper bag. I think the diaper bag industry should jump up their own ass for perpetuating the myth that you can have a fashionable diaper bag, or a diaper bag that "doesn't look like a diaper bag." Because it doesn't matter if Versace makes the damn thing, it's going to have Cheerio crumbs and diaper cream all over it. You're packing an exact replica (to scale) of what you have in your house (food, toys, diapers, medicine, sunscreen, pacifier, wipes, camera, extra clothes, stuffed animal, blanket) even though at any given time, your child will only want or need one of the things in the bag and that, my friend, is down in the bottom. I've had four different diaper bags in the past year and have a list of needs as long as the one for my purse. And the most important item on that list is less pockets and dividers. Because trying to be organized while my toddler is crying, or running after a duck, is pressure I just don't need.

So, picture me. Let's pretend I've showered and look presentable. And let's assume it's a day that my daughter goes to day care and I have to work and teach and then go to class myself, after which I'll run off some steam at the gym. So out the door I walk with my purse on my right shoulder, a diaper bag on my left shoulder, my professional bag in one hand, a baby on one hip and a pack on my back. And from the looks of things, it's apparent I've misplaced my keys.

This leads me back to shopping last weekend with my salt-and-pepper husband. The man who accepts my neurotic behavior. Who acknowledges that I'm often both insecure and unapologetic about being in a more developmental stage of life. Who supports my numerous and attention-stealing endeavors. Who understands how hard I'm working to make it all work. And who is trying to make up for the one time he asked me to slip his wallet and Kindle into my purse.

So there we are in the handbag section with me spewing things like, "Jessica Simpson's name ruins the aesthetic," while he calmly points to other options deeper in the pit of leather. And, like every time, I come up empty-handed and grumpy. And as we leave the mall getting illegible looks from strangers, his wife defeated and his day misspent, my husband reaches out and grabs my current handbag and tucks it under his arm.



And we carry on.