Confessions of a handbag hobo.

Pictured above: Not me. (sigh)

Once upon a time I was handbag-daft.
Prior to my glam career at DesignerLaundry (a marketing role mind you) the illustrious world of high fashion and most specifically, the allure of the female handbag, completely eluded me.

“A handbag to a woman is what a watch is to a man,” declared Joselle, my business partner and far more fashionably superior confidante. “It’s a woman’s ultimate status symbol.”

“Really?” I quickly yanked off my wilted no-name micro suede demi by its weathered plastic strap. Although I never noticed it before, my bag was so very...blah.

Until now I never really thought about it but my bag certainly wasn’t going beyond: It was five years old, brown, fit my wallet, keys, cell phone, and matched basically everything I own because it was so, unremarkable. As I bolted out the door each morning my choice of bags was an afterthought, like underwear. An autopilot move that causes me to go for the same few pairs every time just because they're comfy and do the job. When the waistband begins to fray and the lace loses its luster, I notice only after its too late (sorry honey). I admit I’m fashion lazy. If I were a handbag, I’d be a hobo.

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