My Purse, and Other Little Things

If there’s one thing I love about women, it’s that they can find beauty in anything. Maybe it’s because in the grand scheme of things, the big stuff never seems too great for our gender. Maybe it’s a trait passed down from mother to mother since the beginning of mothers. Maybe it’s cultural, maybe men do it too, and either I haven’t noticed it yet, or they don’t share it. 

Every day I read new writings from the women on my Her Campus team. Every day, I am touched to be in the presence of such smart women and am grateful they are sharing how they see the world. Even if they’re just sharing a little bit. 

One woman turned the description of a greasy brown paper bag into a reflection of her childhood and impending adulthood. Another talked about baking and turned it into a piece about the people she loved (and the people she hated). A single lyric from a single song can be turned into a call for universal kindness. A dorm building elevator can be turned into a memory book of past struggles. 

Life is much easier when you take the mundane and twist it, mold it, pop it in a kiln, and make it the exceptional. 

A couple of months ago, I was stuck on a train on my way from Italy to Switzerland, and I had nothing but time on my hands. On this train, next to my friend and across from a large Italian man who did not understand the concept of personal space or deodorant, I scribbled away in a notebook. I tried to twist the mundane–and the scribblings turned out as such: 

The Purse

She played with the stitching on her new leather purse on her train ride, feeling its imperfections and noting where they were. She wanted to keep it as close to new as possible.

When she arrived at the Florence leather markets, she knew she wanted one. She didn’t know why–she had never really been one for fashion. 

When she was little, she called herself a tomboy. Femininity resembled weakness when she was young, even in the 2000s, and she didn’t want to be seen as weak. A b*tch? Sure. Aggressive? She’d take it. But never weak. 

But here she was, tracing the stitching of a new purse, meticulously organizing what she was putting inside it—a key, some coins, her glasses that she didn’t wear until a headache forced her to. Every couple of hours, she’d rearrange it again. If she stared at it for too long, she’d involuntarily bring it up to her face, breathing in the smell of the brown and soft leather. It smelled like her grandpa’s shoes, the helm of the Bowie knife her parents kept in the car while camping. It smelled like her mother’s tall black boots that she only wore on special occasions. It smelled like grown-up, even though at this point, she was one herself.

The young woman hadn’t felt strong, like the tomboy she once was, in a while. She was alone in a foreign country, her heart freshly broken. She had lost the version of herself that she longed to be again: a young and free version, yearning to feel soft grass on her feet, a burst of cold air on her skin, and sunshine that peeked over mountaintops and evergreen trees. Curls uncontained and unbrushed instead of straightened and pulled back with a clip.

Now, she rarely smiled, and hadn’t gone a day without crying over cruel actions from a cruel boy in a month. She didn’t know who she was, and when she thought, for even a moment, she had found herself, she’d disappear as quickly as she came. She hadn’t felt truly sure about anything for what felt like forever–until she decided she wanted a leather purse from the streets of Florence, Italy. 

She never thought she’d be so obsessed with a purse. A purse, of all things! She used to shove things in her pockets, or hold them in her hands, running out the door to join her friends while her mother’s voice followed: You’re old enough to start carrying a bag. If only her mom could see her now. 

It was a gorgeous purse. Small enough to not weigh her down, large enough to fit more than she needed. The strap was fastened with a gold metal buckle and was long enough for her to wear the purse cross-body. It was a deep brown color–the color of brownies, almost red in tone. The color of wet and fresh dirt after a hard rain. 

With the purse around her body, she could envision a new world, one where she was happy again. A world where she could dance to her favorite music and run like the wind until her lungs hurt, hopefully with a dog– how badly she wanted a dog of her own! A world full of meals with her family and laughs with her friends. A world where she knew her intelligence and used it for good. A world where, no matter how hard it felt to let go, she’d be able to love again. Love herself, her loved ones, and one day, someone new. 

Indeed, what a brave new world that would be! With her new purse, she knew she could enter it in style.

• purse
• women