A handbag?

“Mr. Worthing. I must confess that I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred in a handbag, whether it have handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life which reminds one of the worst excesses of the French revolution, and I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to?”

I have handbag issues. They might pale in comparison to Mr Earnest Worthing’s troubles (Confused? Watch and learn, not in that order) but occasionally keep me up at night nonetheless.

Let me illustrate.

Now, I do realize that for many women out there, my sad and saggy collection might induce tears of sadness or mirth. But that’s just the point. Each handbag you see is worse than modest. It’s useless. I have struggled for years to find a happy handbag.

In a dream world, my handbag would be nonexistent, and everything would fit into my pockets, something the Philosopher repeatedly advises me to try.

Realism has never been his strongest -ism.

In another possible world, my handbag would be
• Big enough to carry my lunch
• Small enough to match my short and squat frame. Otherwise people will and have laugh(ed).
• Not too boxy
• One zipped inside pocket for medicines
• One zipped outside pocket for chapstick, gum, etc
• A safe place for my phone
• A top zipper or buttons so things don’t fall out
• Within Christmas-present price range
• Super awesome

Am I asking too much? Is there hope?

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