The Bag Inside the Bag Inside the Bag
At some point, my handbag stopped being a handbag.
It became infrastructure.
I did not notice this happening.
There was no meeting.
No strategic plan.
No moment when I consciously thought, What this bag really needs is a smaller bag containing three even smaller bags.
And yet here we are.
There is the bag itself.
Inside the bag is a pouch.
Inside the pouch is another pouch.
Inside that pouch is something I have not seen since approximately March but remain convinced is important.
This is how it begins.
The main bag contains the things one might reasonably expect a handbag to contain.
Wallet.
Keys.
Phone.
Sunglasses.
Then there are the things that have somehow become essential despite the fact that I survived the first several decades of my life without carrying them everywhere I went.
A charger.
A reusable shopping bag.
Lip balm.
Tissues.
A pen.
Another pen, because the first pen will not work when required.
A spare set of glasses. Possibly two.
A small notebook, because apparently my ideas cannot be trusted to remain in my head for the seven minutes it might take to get home.
And then there are the pouches.
This is where the system becomes advanced.
Women understand pouches.
Men often do not.
A man will look inside a handbag and see a collection of small zippered bags.
A woman sees departments.
There is a cosmetics department.
An electronics department.
A minor-emergency department.
A receipts department that was not intended to become a department but has done so through rapid and entirely unmanaged growth.
There may also be a pouch whose original purpose has been forgotten but which now contains two mints, a safety pin, one earring and a loyalty card for a business that closed during the pandemic.
Obviously, it must remain.
The problem with pouches is that they solve one problem by creating another.
Before pouches, I could not find anything because everything was loose in my handbag.
Now I cannot find anything because I cannot remember which pouch contains it.
This is progress.
I stand at counters opening one small bag after another like a deeply unqualified magician.
Not this one.
Not this one.
Definitely not this one.
Meanwhile, the thing I need is usually in my hand.
There is also the matter of the reusable bag.
I have one folded neatly inside my handbag because I am a responsible citizen.
Unfortunately, I often forget that I have it and buy another reusable bag.
That reusable bag then enters the handbag ecosystem.
At this point, I believe I may be carrying enough reusable bags to open a reusable-bag store.
This would at least give them somewhere to go.
The bottom of a handbag is its own geological layer.
There are coins. Coins! Where do so many dimes come from in our electronic world?
Crumbs.
A hair elastic.
Possibly a button.
An object that looks important but cannot be identified.
And grit.
Where does the grit come from?
I am not hiking with this bag.
I am not transporting landscaping materials.
I go to meetings.
I go to restaurants.
I go to the grocery store.
And yet every handbag I have ever owned eventually develops the floor of a public playground.
I used to think the answer was a smaller bag.
This was naive.
A smaller bag does not make you carry fewer things.
It simply makes you angry at geometry.
You attempt to fit the same infrastructure into half the available space and spend the evening removing your sunglasses every time you need your wallet.
The tiny handbag is very chic until you require anything.
The alternative is the large bag.
Large bags are dangerous because they encourage optimism.
You think, I have room.
And you do.
For approximately forty-eight hours.
Then the space fills itself.
A large handbag is like a storage room.
No one has ever looked at an empty storage room and thought, Let’s preserve this beautiful negative space.
We fill it.
The extra room becomes an invitation.
Maybe I should bring a book.
Maybe I should bring a sweater.
Maybe I should bring both.
Maybe someone will need something.
This last thought is particularly dangerous.
Because somewhere along the way, the handbag stopped containing only things I might need and began containing things that someone might need.
This is how you become the person who can produce a tissue, a charger, a pen, a bandage, gum and possibly a snack while standing in a parking lot.
No one appointed you.
The job simply expanded.
And once people discover you have things, they begin asking.
“Do you have a pen?”
Yes.
“Do you have a Kleenex?”
Yes.
“Do you have a charger?”
Probably.
“For this phone?”
Let’s not get carried away.
The strangest part is that I take a certain amount of pride in being prepared.
I like being the person who has the thing.
There is something deeply satisfying about reaching into a bag and producing exactly what someone needs.
Until I cannot find it.
Then I become furious with a system I designed myself.
There is no one else to blame.
This is one of the less satisfying things about living alone and carrying your own handbag.
You cannot shout, “Who moved my charger?”
You moved your charger.
April Danielle put it in a different pouch.
April Danielle had her reasons.
By midlife, the handbag becomes a physical record of everything you have learned can go wrong.
Phones die.
Restaurants are cold.
Stores charge for bags.
Lips become dry.
Small print becomes smaller.
Someone always needs a pen.
You begin carrying contingencies.
Not because you are anxious.
Because you have data.
You have been alive long enough to know that the day you leave the umbrella at home is the day Vancouver decides to make a point.
Still, there must be a limit.
Every few months I become determined to simplify.
I empty the entire bag onto the bed.
I am ruthless.
I throw out the receipts.
I remove the dead pen.
I return the sunglasses to their case.
I find three things I have been looking for elsewhere.
I consolidate the pouches.
For a few glorious minutes, the bag contains only essentials.
It is light.
Elegant.
Almost European.
I carry it feeling like a woman who has finally understood something about restraint.
Then I remember I need the charger.
And the reusable bag.
And sunglasses.
And perhaps the other spare glasses.
I put back the notebook.
The pen.
Another pen.
I add a sweater because it looks cold.
Then I notice there is plenty of room.
This is how it starts again.
By the time I leave the house, I am once more carrying a bag containing a bag containing a bag.
Somewhere inside the smallest one is probably exactly what I need.
I just need to remember which department handles it.
~ Danielle