Typical Texan handbag. I put Bert in it when we go to tea at the Ritz. Foto by Stingray.
I may have inadvertently given the impression that I am against carrying things around in bags. Nothing could be further from the truth, for I am an aunt of action. What could be more inspiriting than knowing your emergency whoopee cushion is just a flick of a zipper away? Not that I endorse prop comedy or anything.
It is true that I denounce tiny handbags because they hold less than nothing, require the commitment of an entire limb from which to dangle, and infantilize the bearer with their darling pre-teen cuteness.
Until such time as bags are made obsolete by technology (I predict miniaturization, perhaps, or Star Trekkian devices, strewn around the town like Baby GAPs, that can replicate whatever you might need while away from your lair), it is difficult to see a way around baggin’ it. For the spinster aunt, at least, it is injudicious to quit the bungalow without a copy of Peterson’s field guide to Texas birds, a giant camera, a device called “Mr T In Your Pocket” that plays said 70’s celebrity’s pithy catch-phrases at the push of a button (“Don’t gimme no back-talk, sucka!”), 3 days’ emergency rations, an inflatable raft, a packet of stickers that say “THIS DEMEANS WOMEN,” and the Oxford English Dictionary (Unabridged). And a box of Tic-Tacs. And a flame-thrower.