Ever since the pandemic news got bad, I’ve lost almost all of my usual verve for fashion and beauty. Where once I would spend hours per month trawling the websites of beloved clothing and accessories makers, now I can barely bring myself to window-shop for new socks online even though mine are riddled with holes. I trudge through most days in stretched-out T-shirts and comfy lounge pants, my hair pulled back in a cursory nub of a bun, lipstickless and lethargic.
Part of the reason for all this is the obvious: no one is seeing my outfits (no one except my partner, my roommate, and her two cats, that is), so I feel less motivated to put them together. There is no one to infer things about me from what I have on, and in losing the motivation to perform my selfhood in this way, I’m also losing some of that selfhood itself.
Another component of my sartorial disinterest is due to plain ol’ depression and grief. What we’re going through right now, as a species, is traumatic on scales we have yet to fully comprehend. I know from past experience that immense, bone-deep sadness causes my materialistic impulses to either ramp up significantly as a distraction tactic, or to drop off completely in a blaze of nihilism. Lately I’m oscillating between both extremes, but mostly landing on the latter.
However, there is still one category of fashion item that tugs at my femme heartstrings and makes my world feel a little brighter, and that’s handbags. Purses. Satchels. Totes. I ogle the Kate Spade and Coach websites in spare moments. I comb through eBay listings with keen-yet-weary eyes. I take great pleasure in ogling my extant handbag collection – though I rarely touch any of them these days.
That’s the root cause of this, I have to imagine: the lack of need for a bag at this time in history. I can throw on cute outfits galore in the confines of my apartment, and even clomp around in heels I’d never or rarely wear out into the world, but carrying a bag in those instances feels totally unnecessary and impractical. What, am I gonna tuck a petite clutch under my arm for the journey from the bedroom to the kitchen? Slide a crossbody strap over one shoulder for a jaunt to the garbage chute down the hall? I think not.
Even when I go out, I don’t have much use for bags now. More often than not, I’m just going on a quick errand or a meandering walk. I’ll cram my phone into the back pocket of my jeans (I rarely have the emotional energy for skirts and dresses these days), slip my keys into the front one, and maybe bring along a credit card or some cash if I plan on wandering to the shops. With a fabric mask on, I find it’s hard to do anything detail-oriented that lies below my sightline, so rummaging through a bag like I might normally do is impractical and sometimes even painful. (Anyone else find themselves constantly getting poked in the eye by their masks, through some strange contortion of facial muscles and eyeballs?!)
The increasing pointlessness of handbags, the frivolity and complexity of lifestyle that they hearken back to and that contrasts so sharply with my current involuntarily pared-down life, somehow makes them more appealing to me rather than less. They’re a useless luxury object at the moment, sure. But they’re also a window into my future, a future of normalcy regained, a future of getting dressed up and having somewhere to go.
The ritual of packing my pretty purse before an outing is often ceremonious and always important. Solo dates, especially, require preparation in this arena: I’ll fill a piece of lovely leather with my journal and pen so I can reflect on my feelings in a café window, or a loaded-up Kindle so I can spend time with beloved fictional characters at a cocktail bar, or a pair of glasses so I can see a theatrical cast’s every facial expression from the nosebleed seats. I’ll check to make sure I have my ID incase of booze, and my earbuds incase of boredom. I’ll throw in some gum or mints if there’s romance on the horizon. I’ll check the contents of my wallet to see how much merriment I can afford to make. It’s a femme ritual that feels like writing the blueprint of my outing before it even begins. The contents of my bag guide me on my journeys; the bag itself may as well be cute.
I haven’t actually purchased any new bags during this time period, for reasons you can probably guess: it feels unnecessary, I’m trying to keep an eye on my finances, and there are so many better ways I could and should direct my cash during this crisis. But I doubt I’ll stop staring at the kelly-green Marc Jacobs totes and lemon-yellow Coach satchels any time soon. They give me solace, and glee, and something to look forward to: a life that’s once again worth packing a bag for.
Keith Haring limited-edition Coach Rogue bag
Pink cardigan
L’Oreal lipstick in “Devil’s Matte-vocate Red”
Black and silver dress