Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Ball and chain

I need to break up with my handbag. We’ve been together way too long, and he’s starting to smother me.

(Yes, my handbag is a “he.” Everything I own is a “he,” as to ensure I am always the Ultimate Feminine.)

Said handbag is sexy and complimentary, both tan and black, so he matches everything I wear. He is tough, with silver studs and a chain strap that is deliciously chilly on my shoulder when I’m walking down the sweltering Pearl Street Mall.

I was initially attracted to his fun, urban attitude (made by Rocawear) – a slight gaudiness I find imperative for any worthy accessory this season.

But I have outgrown him. Literally. I can’t zip him anymore, so when I accidentally drop or knock him over, a tsunami of coins, lip glosses, receipts, earrings and iPod accessories rages forth.

I would have to give up a lot to make this relationship work. He is cramping my ways. Stifling me.

Plus, we’ve been monogamous for about two months, a record uncomfortably outside of my normal faithless ways. I’m an accessory-hopper. A new bag every week. Nay, every night. I am a fashion rolling stone, and I cannot be tethered.

No more. I’m ending this right now.

Photo by Flickr user eightfivezero.

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