It’s kind of hard to make out, but somewhere amid my deskal clutter is the tiny handbag, 8" X 5"
Holy moly. You regulars are aware that I am not ordinarily given to flights of goopy sentimentality, but I’d have to be made of marble not to be pretty choked up over the completely unexpected mammothity of good vibes y’all have loosed into the aether. Thanks to everyone who’s written in support of my continued existence. For once, I completely agree with every last fuckin’ one of you. I am moved to dedicate the domination of my next pork mole taco to the greatest little bunch of patriarchy-blamers the internet has ever known (I’ll dominate a veggie burger from P. Terry’s Burger Stand for the vegans, but the Klingons are just gonna have to tuff it).
OK. Where was I?
Oh yeah, the tiny handbags.
You know the ones I mean? They’re the little clutches with the little handles that you see blonde women under 35 gamely attempting to turn into shoulder bags by squeezing them with their armpits.
It may amuse you to know that I spent a couple of days last week sporting around town with one of these tiny handbags. Is there anything I won’t do to blame the patriarchy?
My findings are these: if the tiny handbag is not a misogynist conspiracy, I don’t know what is.
Even if you are the sort of person who only totes around the tiny things that will fit inside one of these purses (your house key, two bits, and a Xanax), a less efficient container is hardly imaginable. In keeping with the venerable and sadistic women’s fashion tradition of shackling, impeding, and inflicting wherever possible, the bag appears to have been designed specifically to immobilize an entire arm.
You either have to hold it in your hand, which, if you only had two hands to begin with, decreases your handiness by a full 50%, or you have to dangle it from your wrist, where it bangs into things, or you have to hang it from your elbow, where it still bangs into things and also makes you look like a dowdy old Republican, or you have to shove it up around your shoulder and, as I mentioned, squeeze it with your pit in a perpetual struggle against gravity.
Furthermore, access to the bag requires two hands: one to hold it and one to unzip it. And will accommodate, my tests show, neither a copy of Black Like Me nor a field guide to Texas spiders.
Do you see the insanity? Do you grasp the fiendish plot? You have to dedicate a whole limb to this bag. Who wakes up in the morning, flings open the shutters, and cries out, "Today I only need one arm! I will cripple myself with a moron fashion accessory and take on the world without my field guide to Texas spiders!" ? Even if leaving the house with diminished spider identification abilities were advisable, couldn’t one just as easily shove their key, their two bits, and their Xanax into a pocket, or hire a sherpa?
Of course, this is true of any handbag, which is why I can only endorse pursey leathergoods with long shoulder straps, or wheels.