Well, let me preface by saying that I never went through a tomboy stage—and I've also never been a diva. That being said, I have always had a kinship with the delicate details befitting the fairer sex. Dorm life proved interesting with my best friend, Sarah, as a roommate. Sarah was not into "froufrou" things...so much so, that many of them offended her sensibilities. I remember one night in particular when we had a bunch of girls in our room to watch Friends—because watching Friends, come on, it was practically a cult—and I passed around my bottle of floral lotion.

I was massaging a dab of it between my hands when Amy expressed interest in the scent. Soon it was passed to Julie, then Angie, and so on and so forth, until the whole room smelled of daisies. Sarah was purple from the fumes...both those resonating from our bodies and those emanating from her stoked irritation glands. It wasn't pretty. The windows were whipped open and the door quivered about its hinge as she stalked off into the neutral air of the hallway. In all fairness, it was a very concentrated perimeter of fragrance, and I could see how someone sensitive to such things might be left less than amused.

As ever, I have veered away from the subject at hand.

Purses.



Well, I have had a nasty run of luck with them as of late. Really, the last year-complete has been difficult. My strong sense of dedication disallows me the freedom of bed-hopping from one handbag's boudoir to the next. I mean, I could do it...but who could live with the guilt? The dishonesty of it all? Not me, friends. I'm a one-purse kinda gal.

The purse dilemma increased tenfold as my hours spent in waiting rooms amplified. There's only so much time you can whittle away sipping cappuccino and reading a Good Housekeeping magazine from 1993—a truth one can only garner from the bittersweet nip of experience. I would come to require both whosits and whatnots to help the minutes along.

Surveys of my purse returned an address book, a pocketbook, my cell phone, and gum. Surely this could amuse even the likes of me! SURELY! You know, I poured my heart into entertaining myself, but to no avail. I flipped through the address book a few times. I counted the change in that zippered pocket. I leafed through the coffeehouse punch cards. I read the ingredients in the gum. I scrolled through my missed calls list on the cell. So, see? I really did invest effort.

And, after those two minutes were over, I has totally bored with the purse. But what to do? It did not possess the wherewithal to encase further belongings, lip balm notwithstanding, and it wasn't likely to any time in the near future. I would see all of these beautiful, perfect-sized purses on Anna's website—Anna-originals!—and at one time I mused, "I should just make my own purse!" HAH. Between my ever weakening fingers and my innate laziness, that was a farce before it was even conceived.

My multiplying discontent was embittering me against my inadequate but innocent purse. All at once, I decided that a severance would be quite beneficial to us both...my homicidal thoughts were mutually destructive, which I can see in hindsight. I wanted to buy a new bag. I did so last week, as a sort of impending-employment celebration...that's him photographed above. Yes, I buy accessories when I really want to "go all out". What of it?

I love the new guy. I often find myself distracted from the focus of my days—usually something intense like peanut M&M's or can openers—and have a need to blurt, "I LOVE MY NEW PURSE!"

...and the room reacts as though Norm just entered Cheers and cries, "Puuuuuurse!"

Yeah. Cheap thrills...I know.