This bag was no good because once I got a niece or two stuffed in there, there was hardly any room for a box of Altoids.
I spent a quarter of a century on a quest. That quest was for a partner in greatness. A decent shoulder bag.
“Say, this one looks pretty good,” I’d say, giving it an affectionate chuck under the buckle. “Look! It’s got gussets!”
I’d use it for a month or so, but inevitably it would reveal itself lacking some essential detail. My spirits would flag.
“Face it, ” my friends would say. “The blush is off the rose.”
But would I listen? No. We would solider on together, the bag inflicting on me its crappy design, me in denial, but eventually the fact of its mediocrity — its lack of a proper handle or its inconvenient zipper or its failure to accommodate some large necessity — would harbinge irreconcilable differences. Whereupon, as I had done a thousand times before with its legion of predecessors, I would relieve it of its contents and chuck it, deflated and tragic, onto the corpse pile in the bag-morgue.
I kept expecting that if I were dogged enough, and did not give up the hunt, that sooner or later, among so many mortal terrestrial bags, we would find each other: me, full of love’s young dream, and it, gleaming with capaciousness and convenience. When I held it aloft, assessing its weight-to-ugliness ratio, it would speak in silvery tones the promise that though I might stuff it full of camera lenses and squirt guns, it would never conceal from me my ringing cell phone until after it had gone to voicemail.
Finally I went mad. To the last bag that sang to me of special water bottle pockets and a laptop-cozy, I retorted, “But that is the promise that all bags speak, so that I will be mesmerized and take them home! But once we are together, yet I do fear their nature! For their foul design is to their perverse will mine own should crimp! You are like unto god-bags, all!”
After many years, I now realize that what I really need is a burro.
The bag that will hold my all my spinster aunt tackle, a weeks’ worth of supplies and a jet-pak, and be weightless, does not exist in this dimension. Its inside would have to be bigger than its out, and it would have to be exempt from the gravitational pull of this or any other planet, and it would have to jive aesthetically with my 80’s hair band T-shirts.
I bore you with this pathetic preamble because it mirrors my search for reasonable allusions to feminism in the mainstream media. I keep looking, looking, and sometimes I think I’ve found something, but what I get is bupkis. This morning the only thing in my inbox tagged ‘feminist’ was this:
“We’ve been taught for centuries to be glad to get the crumbs. F&%# that! I’m a feminist (and) any woman in the year 2007 who says she’s not a feminist is either a f*%$in’ moron or has been living under a rock for the past 2000 years.” — Ellen Barkin on girl power.
Nice. A celebrity suggesting that an antifeminist can survive under a rock for millennia, the editorial sanitization of “fuck” to “F&%#”, and the infantilization of feminism to ‘girl power.’
And now, I’m off to find a movie that doesn’t portray women exclusively in terms of men. That movie does not exist in this dimension, so I will have to settle for one in which the male hero doesn’t force the fragile girl, who has just stumbled in her high heels and pencil skirt, to hold his hand while they run run run across the rocky terrain.