The first time I saw an ad for this bizarrely huge, scrunched leather bag, I admit I felt an unfamiliar luxe lust. I don't shop for this kinda stuff, ever. Prada is nada, say I.
But there was this unusually large, puffy bag, a new shape for fall, and oddly, I wanted it.
There was no real risk involved, of course. I figured it would probably cost $4,000, and I also figured I'd never be able to find one retail. I know how much some
designers hate to see their clothing on soccer WAGs, even if said soccer WAGs can afford to PAY for the damn things. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not a soccer wife or girlfriend, and it's a safe bet I'd never be in a store where that kind of monetary damage might occur. And even if I was, that particular scrunchy bag would have long since been designated for someone far less proletarian than I. If they're even shipping that particular scrunchy bag to California.
So I began to wean myself from the desire.
When the Cathy comic strip started making fun of fall's new gargantuan purses, though, I felt much better. It's already a joke? Hey, maybe I just saved some mental money.
Then today's New Yorker arrived.
Whew.
Totally safe.
I don't have to want it anymore.
