I just got dumped. By a handbag.
Let me tell you a sob story. Months and months ago, a rather fashionable friend of mine showed up at a gathering with this bag. Nothing too fancy, just simple rich dark brown leather with a bright lined interior, but this bag and I, we had plans. We were going to pair ourselves with jeans and a black wool coat and a pashmina. We were going to sling ourselves over velvet blazers and lacy shirts. We were going to be unstoppable.
Stuart, stalwart and keen husband that he is, knew all about the bag and me. Oh yes. He counted his pennies and found the website and steepled his fingers towards my birthday. The bag, she was beautiful. She was made my a small designer down in Georgia and for real Italian leather, she was a steal. Let’s say she was roughly, oh, right at the entrance of three figures and no more.
Did I mention we were in love?
So when you’re in love, it’s okay when you accidentally spoil your own surprise by finding the invoice in a pile of papers on the kitchen table. It’s okay! You’re in love! It’s okay when the object of your affection doesn’t arrive via post in time to get lovingly unwrapped on your birthday! You’re in love! You can wait! You can wait cheerfully, all the while profusely thanking this wonderful husband who so thoughtfully united you with the cow-hide bag of your dreams.
You can see where this is going.
Today, after extensive phonewrangling to some very irresponsible website-running bag salesladies down in Georgia, it was made clear to Stalwart Stuart that they weren’t going to ship him the bag. Ever. That they’d run out before he’d even placed his order and oh, they’ve discontinued MY DARLING BAG.
But! Yes, Stalwart Stuart is resourceful. He finds out a few stores in New York that carry Irresponsible Bag Maker’s brand and he calls them! All for me! And finds one in SoHo that swears they have the Martha bag (for that was her name) in Paprika (for that was her shiny color).
And when he calls, this wonderful man of mine, he’s delighted to tell me that not only will I have the apex of my desires, it’s probably the last one in Manhattan. I start planning the whole next week’s outfit, as a honeymoon with my bag.
Until he gets there. And what they think is the Martha in Paprika is some other tramp in some other color and my husband, he KNOWS, since he has spent the last two weeks trying to get me the Martha.
O, cruel. Cruel world. It was my birthday gift, my best bag, the bag all others would bow down to. And now, I don’t know where to turn! I am perfect-bagless again. Is there an orphanage where I can adopt a previously-used Martha? Does anyone have another perfect leather handbag source that won’t so colossally let us down?
Can I have a cookie please? *Sniff*.

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