The Purse That Almost Broke Me

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The Purchase

I bought the Kate Shoulder Bag because I wanted to be someone else.

Someone who wore all-black outfits without spilling coffee on them. Someone who said things like “I’ll be in Milan next week” without blushing. Someone who didn’t cry in airport bathrooms.

The bag arrived in a stiff dust bag, smelling of leather and ambition. The gold chain strap bit into my shoulder. The logo plaque glared. I hated it immediately.

First Dates & First Blood

I wore it to a dinner with a man who ordered for me in French. The bag sat between us like a third wheel, its chain clinking against the wine glasses. When he kissed me goodbye, the strap snagged my hair. I yelped. He ghosted.

The next morning, I found a strand of my hair woven into the chain. A souvenir, I thought bitterly.

The Commute Test

Subway rush hour. The bag was too small for my umbrella, too stiff to tuck under my arm. A stranger’s elbow jammed into the logo plaque, leaving a dent. I spent the ride home Googling “how to buff leather scratches.”

The Turning Point

My best friend’s wedding. I stuffed the Kate Bag with tissues, lipstick, and a flask of tequila. During her vows, I fumbled with the clasp, desperate for a sip. The bag tipped, spilling liquor onto the pew.

The bride laughed. The groom scowled. The bag reeked of regret.

But later, in the parking lot, she hugged me, her veil catching on the chain. “You’re my something borrowed,” she whispered.

Why I Kept It

- The Scars: The dent from the subway, the tequila stain, the hair still tangled in the chain.

- The Lies: “Fits all essentials” (it didn’t). “Timeless design” (the logo felt like a billboard).

- The Truth: It mirrored my own awkward fit into a life I thought I wanted.

The Bag’s Redemption Arc

- Job Interviews: Clutched it like a talisman. Got the offer.

- Funerals: Held my father’s eulogy notes. The chain left a red groove on my palm.

- Breakups: Threw it at the wall. The leather survived. I didn’t.

The Day It Clicked

I was late for a flight, sprinting through JFK, the Kate Bag slapping my hip. The chain broke. I caught it mid-air, heart pounding, and laughed.

At 30,000 feet, I stitched the strap with dental floss from the amenity kit. The repair looked deranged. Perfect.

Now

Check It Out Yourself

The bag’s on my shelf, next to a dried corsage and a bottle of expired Xanax. The tequila stain’s faded to a shadow. The chain’s been replaced twice.

Last week, my niece asked to borrow it for prom. “It’s kinda busted,” she said, nose wrinkled.

“That’s the point,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes. Took it anyway.

Not a bag. A biography.