I wanted to believe it was Real. So much. So, so much. So much, in fact, that my heart hurt, quite possibly damaged forever. Everyone would ask me, Is that Real? Yes, I would reply. (Chirp, more like.) Cheap, but Real. Stolen, perhaps; but Real.
Sadly, I found out this weekend it wasn't. Real, that is. I know because it finally fell apart on me. The lining had been fraying, which should have been my first clue. All my pennies were trapped in the parallel purse universe, having slipped through black holes that tore faster than I could stitch them up. And yesterday? The clip that kept the guts of my bag from spilling out all over the floor broke off. I was able to deal with a ripped liner; But what good is a purse if you can't close it?
It's my own fault, really. I asked for this. Said to mom, When you go to New York, can you get me one of those knock off bags that you can buy on the street corner? She obliged, of course, because she is The. Best. Mom. Ever. Brought me back two, in fact.
Please allow me to clarify: The purse - obviously - was real. It existed. I know this because I put my wallet in it. A couple hard candies. A bomb the colour of Blackberry waiting to explode at the most inopportune time. Diapers, sometimes, depending on the task at hand. And pens. Many, many pens. But it wasn't a Prada. I knew it, but others didn't. People will see this purse, I thought, and think I'm fashionable. What a poser.
What a liar.
I threw out my lie yesterday afternoon. It wasn't worth salvaging, taking it in for repair. Because it would cost more to do that than to buy a new purse altogether.
Instead, I went shopping. And my new purse? Perfect. Exactly what I had in mind. It's yellow, and reminds me that Spring is just around the corner every time I look at it. There's room for Blackberries and diapers and pens and hard candies and more. And best of all, it's Real: Because it's not pretending to be something that it isn't.
At peace with myself and on the cutting edge of fashion for only $25.00 at Suzy Shier. Deal.
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2 sweet nothing:
My fake Chloe bag bit the dust. My fake Prada is a tote for my stinky work shoes. They say that you get what you pay for. I just I bought the experience of being led through Chinatown by a complete stranger, down streets with no names,into derelict buildings, through one locked door after anouther, all the while being followed by one concerned husband. Purse, fifty bucks. Living to tell about the story, priceless!
the word is supposed to be guess, but I know you already knew that.
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