An ode to Pink Bag

Sometime an accessory is so fabulous you just have to take a moment and appreciate its existence. I bought Pink Bag for six dollars from a street vendor in Rome. It's some sort of knock-off of a really expensive brand called "Pinko Bag", which may or may not be some kind of Communist purse.

I love Pink Bag. I love Pink Bag first and foremost because it's not pink. I get weird looks sometimes when people puzzle out why it claims to be a color it is not. What's that bag trying to say? Does it have an identity crisis? Is it color blind? Is that girl carrying it kind of an idiot? It makes for a fine conversation starter.

Pink Bag is so cheap that it's just an empty sack inside. No pockets, no special zippers, no fancy schmancy bells and whistles. Just a little perfectly-sized bag, big enough to hold all the crazy shit I carry - and I carry a lot of emergency supplies in that sucker - but small enough to fit snugly around the shoulder and tuck in close to the body so as to never be a burden on my comfort.

Pink Bag's days are numbered, though. The seams on the inside have started to unravel and get caught up in the zipper. I patiently pull out the Swiss army knife because I keep that in there too, and cut the loose threads, but they soon return. The glittery letters that embody Pink Bag's identity have faded to a dull dust of color over the smooth black surface. It's like watching your favorite pet get weaker and weaker until the day you have to run off to the vet and put it down. Scratch that, it's like watching your favorite accessory become old and busted. Because I love the damn bag, but I love my cat more.

So this is for you, Pink Bag, for however much more time we may have together. I don't care whether you go with my oufit or not, you will always be a part of my wardrobe until the day I have to cut you open with scissors because your zipper will no longer run on its tracks. There will be other purses, but there will only ever be one Pink Bag in my life.