Confessions of a handbag addict

I suffer from a rare affliction called Handbag Addiction. It came over me while I was still young; entranced by my grandmother’s handbags full of loose receipts and strawberry candies, and my aunt’s closet full of pebbled leather handbags.

I’m ready to admit it: I’m a bag lady.

On a cold morning, I checked my usual roster of online retailers as I sipped my morning coffee. I’d been careful about spending money because I hadn’t been working as much, but I know a good deal when I see one. Something came over me and I needed to have it at that exact moment–convinced it would fulfill a need I had (for a small crossbody bag with gold hardware and a bold, modern logo). I transferred a small sum of money from my savings account to my checking account to buy a Gucci Black Chevron Matelasse Quilted Leather Camera Bag.

I told myself it’s an investment as I entered my credit card information, my hands shaking with adrenaline, warm with sweat from tapping the keys as fast as I could.

Of course, this wasn’t the first time this has happened.

I have been an obsessive decade-and-half search for “the perfect handbag.” Was I convinced that owning that bag would validate me as a person?

The designer handbag — so powerful, so addictive, and so fun to flaunt.