Birthday…Help!

I turned 52 this month. So RUDE! How…could this possibly happen?

I felt like I needed to do something to make up for being 52. What would make me feel better? What could I BUY?

What could I blow a lot of money on that I really don’t need? And that is how the idea came to me…I need a new purse. I mean, I did not by any stretch need a new purse or really anything except food and exercises. There are so many purses at Ross, TJ Maxx, thirft stores all over LA and, most importantly, hanging from my coat rack! But I needed something to obliterate the fear of death and a purse would have to do. I justified it by saying I needed a MASTER purse, one worthy of my 52 years of age. Something that could carry all my crap; computer, water bottle, change of clothes, emotional baggage, meditation practices…really a mobile home but as a cute tote. As us non-light travelers know, the perfect purse/bag is like the perfect romantic partner: a myth that leaves us searching eternally for something that does not exist.

Fueled by this delusion, I scoured the internet with Google searches like, “Best bag that carries everything” and “the bag that ends the search” and “what purse does Michelle Obama carry.”

I ordered one from a brand that shall remain nameless and I immediately decided to return it. This led me to the new errand of driving myself to Century City Mall where I talked to Brittney at the nameless brand store, tried on more purses and then and wandered around Nordstrom’s asking myself, who shops here? Might I remind you that this is how I was celebrating turning 52. I know how to party.

So after more Internet searches online, I found another purse/bag made by a company whose brick and mortar store is located a few miles from my home on a street called Abbot Kinny. It’s a high-end street lined with restaurants and retail stores like “Rag & Bone” and “Warby Parker” where tiny thin women walk around (more like Abbot Skinny am I right?) with a smoothie and a little shopping bag filled with things like $100 air diffuser oil or a $350 sweater or a beige-toned tea towel. Abbot Kinney was once, like many places in the world, genuinely cool. It was filled with broke ass-artists and dive-y bars, and bordered on a neighborhood with gang violence. Gang violence is now gone but so is all spontaneity and creative spark. Gang violence or a Rag and Bone store? I think it’s really a toss up.

So I drove to this fancy store to buy a fancy purse that I did not need to counter the rudeness of turning 52, though, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was really just killing precious time that I would not get back. Still, we need to enter these rabbit holes to learn that we can skip them.

The store was a Venice Mom’s wet dream, all neutral browns and beige. Like most stores on Abbot Skinny it had minimum inventory. The merchandise is really too precious to, like, actually have any of it in the store. One rod might hold five sweaters priced at $400 each.

I asked the sales girl if the store carried a purse that would change my life, reverse the aging process, grant me immunity from every mistake and misstep in my life, grace my investments with Jeff Bezos’ level of returns, give me a giant break in show business, a relationship that requires zero maintenance because the love is so pure and real, and maybe convert into a transportation vehicle or even a bed that I might need for sudden naps.

She pointed me to a purse which met none of these requirements, but I felt obligated to try it on.

I put it on my shoulder and it looked like, well, a bag. It was well made, leather, with lots of room and “no label.” (Cuz that would be tacky.)

“I own that purse,” said a voice behind me. I turned to see a skinny woman in her 30s or 40s (or 90s, who knows anymore?). “I have traveled all over with it. And I’m a mom!”

Well, if you put it that way. I figured she carried her baby in it. I smiled at her like, “Bitch, are you really talking me into spending $400 on a bag?”

“Are you looking for anything?” the sales girl asked her.

“I need something for a work event…”

“Oh,…here is something,” said sales girl, who seemed a little desperate, as she led her over to a rod with three sweaters.

I let the Skinny Mom and Sales Girl commune over fabulous overpriced clothes and walked out like a child fleeing the monsters in a fairy tale. What insanity had I been entered into?

A few days later my friend Maria Murakawa took me to dinner in Down Town Los Angeles. Before dinner we went to Gallery Track 16 to see an exhibit of Tiajuana artists. We walked around the Fashion District. I have not spent a lot of time in this part of DTALA but was delighted and surprised me in it’s vibrancy of colors of dresses and street food. How have I not spent more time here? Fuck Abbot Skinny with their $400 beige sweaters, what I need is a store full of Quincenera dresses.

Anyway, there is no magic bag that will make turning 52 easier. We age, we die, we need to collect less crap.