photo by Sandy DeFoe
The Price:
Desire Is More Than I Bargained For
I was almost satisfied. My reflection in the closet mirror came very close to pleasing me. Bootcut slacks “balanced the hips,” just as the ad promised. A cardigan skimmed over my midsection, completing the hoped-for slenderizing line from shoulders to shoes. Very flattering . . . just about perfect . . . but missing something.
Ahh. A yellow purse will brighten up this outfit.
I thought it was only a passing fancy.
I forgot about it as soon as I closed the closet door, but it whispered to me in the evening, when well-dressed women sashayed through television commercials. It seduced me from the pages of mailorder catalogs. It flirted with me as I waited for a table at a restaurant. In January, I thought a yellow purse would look cute with my jeans. By March I was sure it would transform my life.
I can’t go on another day without a yellow purse.
I stalked department stores, on the hunt for the life-saving handbag. Tote bags, wallets and clutches littered the shelves like autumn leaves. But no. It had to be a shoulder bag. Shoulder bags abounded -- in shades of mustard, lemon and gold. But no. It had to be daffodil. The repeated failures did not discourage me. They intensified my greed.
The ache of desire was familiar. It started in the morning shower. I disdained the bar of soap, didn’t care that it was scented with lavender, handcrafted by local artisans and beneficial to the environment. I wanted body wash instead. When thirst sent me to the refrigerator, I pushed aside the orange juice, diet pop and bottled water. Where’s the iced tea? Evening ended with a final foot wiggle in the search for a more comfortable sleeping position.
The pocketbook quest remained a solo mission (Girlfriends would taint it with their own ideas about handbag lust.) until I told the secret to my trendy sister.
Leslie sat beside me on her bed. “Something’s wrong. I can tell.”
“I’ve been looking for a yellow purse,” I said. “Can’t find one I like.”
She opened a dresser drawer. “Really? I’ve got a brand new one. You can have it.” She pulled out a box that emitted a faint glow. She parted the tissue paper. There lay a zippered pouf made of leather that shone like a jonquil in the midday sun. It was the size of a lunchbox, with inside pockets for keys, phone and glasses.
I was overjoyed. The thirst was finally quenched.
I sucked in my breath. “Why are you giving it away?”
Surely this prize came with a price.
“You know me. Always grabbing things on sale. It’s been sitting here for months.”
She found my old purse and switched the contents to its superior replacement. “Besides, it’s cuter than this granny thing you carry.”
I slung the bag on my shoulder and headed for the bathroom mirror. The pop of Technicolor peeked from under my sweater’s grey sleeve. Leather nestled against ribcage, a fit as familiar as the embrace of a long-lost friend.
I turned away from my reflection only long enough to kiss Leslie on the cheek. “Thank you. It’s just what I wanted.”
The daffodil pouf collected compliments on its first outing. The teen-aged girl who rung up my groceries stopped to marvel. “Oh-mi-god. I love your purse.”
A colleague, admired for her elegance, caught up with me after a meeting. “Beautiful bag.”
An artist friend snatched it off my arm. “That color. Fabulous.”
On days when I was dressed up, the bag put the period at the end of my carefully constructed fashion statement. And if I threw on dirty jeans and tucked my hair under a baseball cap, the purse evoked mystery. Is she really a frumpy housefrau, or a movie star in disguise?
My confidence brightened.
I sent Leslie a thank-you card, which gushed over her generosity and recounted the exploits of the handbag. She phoned me to acknowledge the card. Her gift had improved our relationship, as well as my image. Life settled into quiet perfection.
Until a worn spot erupted on the strap.
I panicked. I could not let the bag wear out. Fate had brought us together.
There was only one recourse. Save it for special occasions, and buy an additional purse for every day. I would have my daffodil cake and eat it too.
I put away the favored bag, after dumping its contents back into the one it had replaced. With a satisfying slam of the closet door, I took off on a new mission.
Greed propelled me intoa high-tech search. Each morning, I rolled out of bed and stumbled straight to the laptop. Google returned 37,000,000 results for the query yellow handbag. Photos the size of postage stamps wallpapered the screen. Pop-up ads tempted me. Blogs about shoppingled to you-tube videos showing women unboxing designer bags. I was lured ever deeper into the internet.While others checked stock tickers, I was glued to the falling prices on purses.
The room darkened as dusk settled. A gnawing at my temples had grown into a migraine, because I was subsisting on protein bars and energy drinks. The knot in my stomach tightened, but like indigestion after Thanksgiving dinner, it was a small price to pay.
On the third day of the fourth week, I pried myself away from the computer and shuffled to the closet to get dressed. With the door half-open, I squinted into the shadows.
The daffodil pouf gleamed back.The ultimate yellow bag. The preeminent pocketbook. The Holy Grail of handbags. I already owned what I was looking for.
I felt betrayed. It turned out that green grass was plentiful on my side of the fence. I was doomed. If owning the treasures I coveted failed to gratify me, I might never be happy. The future looked grim -- a closet bursting with the spoils of my acquisitivenes, shelves crashing to the floor under the weight of the loot, and ambulance drivers pulling my squashed body from beneath a mountain of cashmere, silk and suede. Death from insatiable accessorizing.
Yet hope rose from my pile of luxuries. After all, I’d been content with the “granny thing,” right up until the instant the cute-yellow-bag passing fancy failed to pass. It wasn’t the lack of a new purse that felt bad; it was the wanting that made me sick. Even then, the sickness only showed up in fits and starts. Maybe . . . if I caught desire before it caught me….
I set the Technicolor purse beside its drab companion. Once more, the transfer began. I tossed in the wallet. Keys, phone and glasses slid into the pockets. That worn spot seemed smaller.
I felt calmer, if somewhat weary from the journey. A hot shower beckoned me. Pulsing water pounded out the tension. Steam eased away the kinks. The fragrance of lavender wafted up from the eco-friendly bar of soap. Hmm. Wouldn’t some body wash be nice?
Time held its breath, but I allowed the question to dissolve in the mist. The price of responding was too high.
Desire Is More Than I Bargained For
I was almost satisfied. My reflection in the closet mirror came very close to pleasing me. Bootcut slacks “balanced the hips,” just as the ad promised. A cardigan skimmed over my midsection, completing the hoped-for slenderizing line from shoulders to shoes. Very flattering . . . just about perfect . . . but missing something.
Ahh. A yellow purse will brighten up this outfit.
I thought it was only a passing fancy.
I forgot about it as soon as I closed the closet door, but it whispered to me in the evening, when well-dressed women sashayed through television commercials. It seduced me from the pages of mailorder catalogs. It flirted with me as I waited for a table at a restaurant. In January, I thought a yellow purse would look cute with my jeans. By March I was sure it would transform my life.
I can’t go on another day without a yellow purse.
I stalked department stores, on the hunt for the life-saving handbag. Tote bags, wallets and clutches littered the shelves like autumn leaves. But no. It had to be a shoulder bag. Shoulder bags abounded -- in shades of mustard, lemon and gold. But no. It had to be daffodil. The repeated failures did not discourage me. They intensified my greed.
The ache of desire was familiar. It started in the morning shower. I disdained the bar of soap, didn’t care that it was scented with lavender, handcrafted by local artisans and beneficial to the environment. I wanted body wash instead. When thirst sent me to the refrigerator, I pushed aside the orange juice, diet pop and bottled water. Where’s the iced tea? Evening ended with a final foot wiggle in the search for a more comfortable sleeping position.
The pocketbook quest remained a solo mission (Girlfriends would taint it with their own ideas about handbag lust.) until I told the secret to my trendy sister.
Leslie sat beside me on her bed. “Something’s wrong. I can tell.”
“I’ve been looking for a yellow purse,” I said. “Can’t find one I like.”
She opened a dresser drawer. “Really? I’ve got a brand new one. You can have it.” She pulled out a box that emitted a faint glow. She parted the tissue paper. There lay a zippered pouf made of leather that shone like a jonquil in the midday sun. It was the size of a lunchbox, with inside pockets for keys, phone and glasses.
I was overjoyed. The thirst was finally quenched.
I sucked in my breath. “Why are you giving it away?”
Surely this prize came with a price.
“You know me. Always grabbing things on sale. It’s been sitting here for months.”
She found my old purse and switched the contents to its superior replacement. “Besides, it’s cuter than this granny thing you carry.”
I slung the bag on my shoulder and headed for the bathroom mirror. The pop of Technicolor peeked from under my sweater’s grey sleeve. Leather nestled against ribcage, a fit as familiar as the embrace of a long-lost friend.
I turned away from my reflection only long enough to kiss Leslie on the cheek. “Thank you. It’s just what I wanted.”
The daffodil pouf collected compliments on its first outing. The teen-aged girl who rung up my groceries stopped to marvel. “Oh-mi-god. I love your purse.”
A colleague, admired for her elegance, caught up with me after a meeting. “Beautiful bag.”
An artist friend snatched it off my arm. “That color. Fabulous.”
On days when I was dressed up, the bag put the period at the end of my carefully constructed fashion statement. And if I threw on dirty jeans and tucked my hair under a baseball cap, the purse evoked mystery. Is she really a frumpy housefrau, or a movie star in disguise?
My confidence brightened.
I sent Leslie a thank-you card, which gushed over her generosity and recounted the exploits of the handbag. She phoned me to acknowledge the card. Her gift had improved our relationship, as well as my image. Life settled into quiet perfection.
Until a worn spot erupted on the strap.
I panicked. I could not let the bag wear out. Fate had brought us together.
There was only one recourse. Save it for special occasions, and buy an additional purse for every day. I would have my daffodil cake and eat it too.
I put away the favored bag, after dumping its contents back into the one it had replaced. With a satisfying slam of the closet door, I took off on a new mission.
Greed propelled me intoa high-tech search. Each morning, I rolled out of bed and stumbled straight to the laptop. Google returned 37,000,000 results for the query yellow handbag. Photos the size of postage stamps wallpapered the screen. Pop-up ads tempted me. Blogs about shoppingled to you-tube videos showing women unboxing designer bags. I was lured ever deeper into the internet.While others checked stock tickers, I was glued to the falling prices on purses.
The room darkened as dusk settled. A gnawing at my temples had grown into a migraine, because I was subsisting on protein bars and energy drinks. The knot in my stomach tightened, but like indigestion after Thanksgiving dinner, it was a small price to pay.
On the third day of the fourth week, I pried myself away from the computer and shuffled to the closet to get dressed. With the door half-open, I squinted into the shadows.
The daffodil pouf gleamed back.The ultimate yellow bag. The preeminent pocketbook. The Holy Grail of handbags. I already owned what I was looking for.
I felt betrayed. It turned out that green grass was plentiful on my side of the fence. I was doomed. If owning the treasures I coveted failed to gratify me, I might never be happy. The future looked grim -- a closet bursting with the spoils of my acquisitivenes, shelves crashing to the floor under the weight of the loot, and ambulance drivers pulling my squashed body from beneath a mountain of cashmere, silk and suede. Death from insatiable accessorizing.
Yet hope rose from my pile of luxuries. After all, I’d been content with the “granny thing,” right up until the instant the cute-yellow-bag passing fancy failed to pass. It wasn’t the lack of a new purse that felt bad; it was the wanting that made me sick. Even then, the sickness only showed up in fits and starts. Maybe . . . if I caught desire before it caught me….
I set the Technicolor purse beside its drab companion. Once more, the transfer began. I tossed in the wallet. Keys, phone and glasses slid into the pockets. That worn spot seemed smaller.
I felt calmer, if somewhat weary from the journey. A hot shower beckoned me. Pulsing water pounded out the tension. Steam eased away the kinks. The fragrance of lavender wafted up from the eco-friendly bar of soap. Hmm. Wouldn’t some body wash be nice?
Time held its breath, but I allowed the question to dissolve in the mist. The price of responding was too high.