January 10, 2012
Thick, wrinkled, gray-green skin hangs under my arm. Hairless and soft, this large cotton-lined sack with straps offers my possessions necessary protection.
Most things are divided into their own proper place. The phone has a little skin patch pocket to prevent scraping against the sharp metal objects with which it must share this home. The zip pocket hides away the more unmentionable items (to mention them: tampons). A bright red wallet peeks out of the main compartment.
Compartmentalization is key, as is durability and density. A little purse would not do, nor would a fussy handbag. This sack is just right, with its supple thickness and immense volume.
I grew to love this big bag despite shelving it for years. I love it also despite the discomfort it causes when anything of real weight is carried inside. The straps stretch, cut into my shoulder. I've taken off my shirt to find red patches of burst blood vessels at the surface of my own, notably thin, skin. This bag's surface is the opposite of my own.
I also loathe this, and all, bags. Baggage itself presents an ongoing problem. I want badly to rid myself of the need to carry around several person effects. This is nearly an impossible task. Am I bound to be a lifelong bag lady? Could I leave the comfort of my home without over ten things bound in a sack to my person? Perhaps to do so I would have to grow a thicker skin myself.