It’s spring, and because I’m a girl and an American – sadly not, despite much wishing on the part of my nine-year-old self, an American Girl – this means two things. One, I will ignore the mismatched bikini tops and bottoms that have already gone on sale at Target because they’ve been out since February; and two, I will move all of the necessaries from my little winter clutch into a big, cross-body boho bag for all of the adventures I imagine I can have out of doors, in coffee shops and bookstores and cafés.
I feel entirely ridiculous when I claim that carrying a new purse has an inane power to make me feel more powerful, but it’s true. The thirty-seven bobby pins that rattled about in the bottom of the old one are returned to the ceramic bowl in the bathroom, where they’ll take the next few months to distribute themselves as I take my hair down and put it haphazardly up; my keys and cell phone and iPod and laptop mouse find pockets all, and the promise of ease of use (it won’t take but a week for everything to end up in a jumble-fuck at the bottom of the bag). I don’t have to choose between my Kindle or my journal or my Netbook. This bag is a productivity love fest. I feel like I can go and do and be for as long as I don’t realize I’m lugging eight pounds over one shoulder.
When that happens in July I’ll just dump it out and start over again. It’s really the solution to more than one would think.