Pink. Purse.

I violated several of my personal rules and bought a pink purse. I’m going to try to keep calling it a bag because I’m against the word ‘purse,’ for reasons based on principles.

They had a “Mother’s Day” boutique downstairs where I work and someone was selling bags. Colors included red, light blue, black, light green and pink. The right bag — large enough to carry my many notebooks and at-a-glance calendar, with structural integrity (so it stands by itself instead of crumpling into a heap like the bag I’ve been using) — happened to be pink. Faux leather*. I had to snatch it up right then before any of the other women in the building got it. This particular purse was highly sought for, another lady was even eyeing it while I was making up my mind, while it was in my hands. The saleswoman told me she could get a red one in that style in a few weeks, if I wanted her to. But on the chance that she couldn’t get a red one any time soon, I bought the pink one (falling into her sales trap? Probably).

Riding up to the 4th floor with my new bag, another woman said something about my purse. I told her it’s a bag, and said I usually don’t buy pink things. “Oh, it’s not pink,” she said, gaining favor in my eyes. “It’s rose.”

I laughed and got off the elevator. Then I took it with me to show Stoker, when I picked him up for lunch.

“Nikki, it’s definitely mauve. It’s not pink at all. As anyone can see, it’s very much a deep mauve,” he said, looking it over while we were stuck in traffic.

“You’re only saying it’s not pink so I keep it,” I said.

“It’s mauve. And I think you should keep it.”

“It’s against everything I believe. You don’t think the red would be better?”

“No,” he said. “I’d hate the red. I like seeing you with a pink purse.”

“Now you’re calling it pink. And it’s not a purse. It’s a bag,” I said.

“I’m calling it a purse because you’re not a bag lady.” Funny. So I gave in. I have a pink purse. When did I become so feminine? I don’t know**. But the world is better with a pink pur…bag by my side.

*I’m sick of asterisks in my posts, too, but faux leather? Who are they kidding. Faux, for those of you who don’t know, means false or fake. So, false leather. Why mix up the English and French? Why not faux cuir? And I don’t even know if ‘cuir’ means leather, but my free online translation says it does (I’ve taken several years of French, but my studies never took me deep into textiles and materials). Or just call it what it is, fake leather.

**Stupid asterisks. But seriously, folks, I’ve been avoiding having a bag like this ever since I graduated from high school. It’s so hard. You have no idea how difficult it is to deny the purse. All my friends have purses. My sisters (all 4 of them) have purses. Why can’t I just be one of those girls who delights in all things feminine? Lipstick, high heels, skirts, painted fingernails. But who am I kidding, the purse is taking me over. I look at it sitting there on my desk, all mauve and rose, and I admire it. It looks back at me, as if to say in a dark, convincing voice: “Hello, Nicole. Don’t you love my shiny buckle latch? Don’t you love my faux leather and perfectly arched handles? What about my strong, structural integrity AND this perfect posture? Look at that, standing perfectly straight and beautiful. I’m the perfect purse. And I’m all yours….or…. maybe you’re all mine. Think about that.” And I do, think of it. And I keep looking at the bag. And I am smitten. Damn.