LADY Likes: The Nomad Bag
It's fall, so say hello to the yearly bag drama.
Full disclosure– I'm afraid I am not a lover of bags. Along with selecting couches and apartments, the choice of a bag means way too much. A bag is lugged around daily, announcing its association with you. If you are racing to be ahead and get one no else has yet, it says you care an awful lot, and that is ick. If it is too familiar, as in the "It" bag, one is reduced to a soldier in a movement. Double ick.
Ladies spend more time with a good bag then they might a job or a husband, so it is big commitment to buy one.
After years, I am still without the "decent black bag" my mother told me I "needed" at age 21 in the 1980's, and I know why. First, there is the terror of the expense which, let's face it, can be staggering. Also, there is the question of which me am I buying for in the close to forever category? I have been many me's; faux Suzanne Farrell, faux young Italian widow, grungy pale 90's girl, factory-visiting designer. Around 2000, I took a stab at the girl in "Summer of '42," before transitioning into the mom in "E.T." after I had my son. None of these me's can agree on a black bag, so I don't have one.
I have given up. Instead, I settle for dalliances.
Here is the one for this fall. Isn't she charming? Not large and not tiny, she can bang alongside my hip in the worn-out, men's 501's I like now, with a black return to the moto boot. She is also invited to dinner with the long, black moss crepe nod-to-Ossie dress and Ralph Lauren riding jacket I seem to be drifting towards, also with that early Superstudios I-don't-care boot. When I grab her by the body it will be equally good with a manicured hand, either the black cat claws I am gunning for (thank you Maayan Zilberman!) or a clean, naked nail à la Clotilde, circa 1981 Lauren ads.
After all the drama and heartbreak of losing Alber, I guess I am finally getting over it. I am back to buying Lanvin. -SRW