Free-Floating Hostility

Monday, February 27, 2006

Some Women Dream of Jewels

Sometimes I fantasize about the perfect bag. My perfect bag is not a purse or a $600 clutch. I dream about the bag that would ease my mind and my weary commuting body. My bag would be, first of all, waterproof. Second, an ingenious series of straps would distribute weight from my aching shoulders to my freakishly strong thighs, but would buckle at convenient places, i.e. not across my rack. My bag would have two separate airtight pouches, detachable and machine washable--one for my gym clothes and sneakers, one insulated for my lunches. It would have a pouch each for my laptop, my nalgene, my wallet, my keys, my phone, my calculator, my hairbrush and my pens. My bag would be black, and resistant to staining. It would feature expandable zippers, yet compress into the right shape for fitting into overhead bins on trains and under desks. It would be made from a material not deriving from anything cute, and would be assembled by members of a strong union. It would smell like gardenias.

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