I’ve had a handbag fetish since I was fourteen years old. I should restate that to say I’ve had an expensive handbag fetish since I was fourteen years old. Gucci, Dooney & Burke, Brighton, Kate Spade, Coach, Fendi, Louis Vuitton—you name the designer brand, and I’ve yearned for it, bargain-shopped for it, or sold personal property on eBay to own it. It’s a shallow obsession and a huge waste of money, I know.
Just when I think I’ve conquered my tote-carrying fixation, a stroll through the Nordstrom or Neiman Marcus handbag department sparks my desire, and I’m off the wagon once again, the rush and exhilaration of finding the perfect purse too powerful to push aside. I leave the store on a handbag high, delighted with my purchase, ready to race home and fully examine the beauty of my selection, its many pockets, nooks, and crannies. I then proceed carefully and reverently, moving all of my belongings into their new quarters, finding the perfect place for each item. It’s a magical moment, only topped by the actual donning of the bag for its first public outing.
I blame my parents for my handbag obsession. Typical, I know, to blame one’s parents for one’s faults, but it’s true … in a round-about sort of way. See, my father’s job relocated our family in the early 1980s from the Midwestern United States to Dallas, Texas. Think Dallas the TV show and all that it conjures—the Texas oil boom, big southern hair, loads of make-up, huge shoulder pads, shameless fur coats, bangles and sparkles galore—you get the idea. I fought valiantly against our family’s move south, but my reluctance and bad attitude momentarily suspended that Friday night when our family’s Chrysler station wagon, wine-red with faux wood trim, rolled into Dallas. The Dallas skyline stood tall, greeting us with Southern hospitality, lights twinkling like diamonds in the clear, crisp November darkness. I’d never seen anything like it. I was a small-town girl. I was mesmerized. And this was only the beginning of my cultural shock and initiation to all things Dallas.
The following Monday, my first day of middle-school classes in a yuppie infested North Dallas suburb, shocked me more than my family’s Friday night debut in the Big D. Beautiful, glamorous, polished, and well-dressed, the girls looked like magazine models. I was a fish out of water. My long, straight hair pulled back in barrettes and my pale, make-up free complexion lacked luster. My designer-free clothes lacked any design at all. I clearly did not measure-up to Dallas’ standards, and I desperately wanted to fit in and make new friends. My whole life my parents had stressed the importance of being beautiful on the inside, yet I did not feel beautiful at all. I arrived home in tears that school day to a sympathetic mother who understood my need for acceptance. In this instance, the recent trauma of relocating excused the outward, superficial focus. I now required more than inside beauty; I needed a makeover. My mother did what any concerned mother would do in this situation—she took me shopping.
