My friend loaned me this purse awhile ago. She has lots of purses. Nice purses. Designer. And she likes to share the joy! God bless her, she gave me a Gucci. Now, being a person who shops mainly at Marshall’s, I have no idea the relative value of Gucci versus Fendi versus B. Makowski, all I know is that this purse is PERFECT. It’s the perfect size, perfect length, perfect color and perfect interior. I adore it. I took it all the way across the country with me, and I fell more in love with it each day. I mean, sure, I felt a little strange dragging it through Waffle House, and I made sure not to put it on the floor of the rest stop bathrooms, but, generally, carrying it made sense in a way that only destiny can craft.
B! and I stayed with this friend after our illustrious return to the East Coast, and on Friday night we took her out to dinner. While enjoying a pre-entree cigarette, I confessed my feelings about the Gucci.
“I just LOVE it,” I gushed, “I mean, it’s absolutely PERFECT. Like, oh, where are my keys? Let me just reach my little arm down in here and what’s up, hey now, here they are!” I held them aloft like a trophy. I could never find my keys in my other bags. Clearly, this Gucci had magic. And I told her so.
“I can’t give it to you, Erin.”
“Oh, yeah, I mean like, OBVIOUSLY. I didn’t mean to suggest – ”
“That’s an eleven hundred dollar bag.”
Stop. Wait. Hold up.
“WHAT?” My jaw dropped. “You let me take an ELEVEN HUNDRED DOLLAR BAG all the way ACROSS THE COUNTRY? Are you INSANE? Have you SEEN what I do to my purses?”
“I just wanted you to enjoy it, I like to share things with the people I love!”
She’s clearly the sweetest girl on the face of the earth, but this realization was too much. I’m a Destroyer of Things, and that Gucci didn’t stand a chance. Not in my clutches. I returned it to her last night with just a few tears and very little fanfare, and now I’m back to my normal tote. But I’ll always remember the smell of fine leather and the way it settled in on my shoulder… Ciao, Gucci. Ciao.
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