I have a drawer full of shoes at work. I have door full of shoes on a rack at home. I have MAC eye shadows. Trendy tights. I have a collection of Sarah McLachlan songs. I have some Christina Aguilera songs for when I run a couple times a month from being guilt-ridden because I’m carb-ridden from my dinners at Francescas. And just as I approach the 100% girl-factor, I fall short at this: purses.
I own one. That’s right, I own A purse. You may be asking what’s wrong with me. The Bridge could peruse the shoe department for hours, like a kid in a candy shop. I may even sample one too. On my feet, in my mouth, whatevers…
Yet, as I meander the aisles of the purse section at Macy’s, I feel nothing. My fervor falls flacid for these things. There is an emptiness near the Nine West bags, the Fossil bags, the Circa bags. I tried them on. I walked around. I pretended to enjoy the junkiness of their design. And yet again, I feel not only emptiness, but a compelling desire to be in the shoe section instead.
I cannot tell the difference between this:
OR....
OR....
I’m scared to tell my friends. Will they no longer accept me? What will my family say? I haven’t brought my purse around anyone because I’m afraid of what they might think. It’s tattered and outdated. It’s from JC Penney. It gives no credence to the fashion of today’s modern woman.
Therefore, what does this deem me?
a. Less of a woman
b. Unfashionable
c. In need of divine intervention
