The Joy of Not Caring About Designer Bags
And trying to identify quality for longevity.
I remember getting my first “handbag”—what my grandmother fondly called a pockabook (pocketbook)—when I was a little girl. I strutted around like I owned the place but had zero idea what to actually put in it. I ended up with a few random things: a mini stapler, a packet of sugar, a couple of marbles—you know, the essentials. Pretty quickly, I got over the novelty of lugging stuff around, and the bag was tossed in the corner, forgotten.
In middle school, when the Kate Spade Bag was the accessory, I felt the crushing desire of wanting to fit in. My mom and I made the classic peer pressure pilgrimage to Canal Street for a faux designer bag. I took it to school, knowing I didn’t even really like it. I plopped it next to a real one, and the queen bee of my class quickly spotted the issue—the label was actually a sticker that said “Kate Spade New York” and peeled right off. My counterfeit bag dreams were crushed.
But that couldn’t stop me from embracing the black market. In high school, I proudly rocked an outrageously large and fake fluorescent yellow Louis Vuitton trunk bag, stuffed with a bladder of Franzia wine and a tube of Doo Wop’s Lip Venom. For once, having a bag this huge actually made sense.
Fast forward to my 20s, and I had zero interest in flashy designer bags. My big “splurge” was an on-sale Miss Sixty crossbody—a buttery brown leather number that I thought was the one. Then someone stole it from my house, and honestly? I didn’t care as much as I thought I would. Maybe it was bag trauma, or maybe I was realizing: I’m just not a handbag person.