An ode to the been-through-it bag
I’ve been a bit of a sneaky ~ overspender ~ lately for no good reason (the other day I bought a crimper from T.J. Maxx. Have I ever crimped my hair before? No. I think that says it all) and it, as most of my decisions, has come back to bite me in the ass.
So, back on the ol’ budget. Due to my scrimp it lifestyle, I’ve been “shopping” my closet, which is a chic way of saying pulling out a bunch of stuff buried in that-clothes-pile-in-the-corner-that-I-try-not-to-look-at and rediscovering it.
While this approach to “shopping” does not have many wins, sometimes you pull out a true victory. In this case, it was my beaten-to-hell Longcamp ‘Le Pliage’ tote, which I bought in college, one million years ago. I was obsessed with this bag in college. When I tell you obsessed, I mean a Jess Mariano level of obsession. Deep hyperfixation moment. I agonized over this bag. I mean, it’s a Nylon bag that costs $150, which in college might as well have been $1,000. I’m pretty sure my credit card limit was $350, so it was taking a big swing.
I think they discontinued the kind of like muted-grey/off-navy colorway I have?? For shame.
But everyone (everyone!!!) had this bag.
On my college campus, every single person wore the exact same thing: a North Face zip-up, leggings, and Uggs (or those Steven Madden riding boots with the red zipper up the back, remember those??), with a Longchamp slung artfully over their shoulder. It was THE bag. Is it… actually a good bag for a college student? Oh, absolutely not. There are no interior pockets. The nylon is as sturdy as an eyelash. But, no matter. An It bag is an It bag, practicality be damned.
So, of course, I bought the bag. But, being me, I didn’t treat the bag, shall we say, lovingly. I strive to be one of those put together people who have possessions that shine like diamonds even after years, but I have accepted the fact that I simply cannot be that girl. I have ruined things the actual day I bought them. All of my clothes have some sort of stain, hole, rip, tear, or stretched-out seam. My couch is constantly covered in lint, despite the fact that I lint-roll it every damn day. Such is my life.
Also sidebar: I bought the bag in this faded grey color, which at the time I thought was very subversive and interesting because it wasn’t black or navy, which is what everyone had. And I have this core memory of bringing my brand new classy bag to one of those college parties where everyone sits around in a random living room with shag carpeting and watches music videos on a big ass TV, the only piece of “furniture” in the room besides a couch. And a girl walked in and immediately goes, “whose grandma bag is this??” Coincidentally she is now my best friend.
I had honestly completely forgot I owned this bag.
I haven’t used it regularly since the halcyon days of 2015 (so much light left in my eyes back then). As you can imagine, after I unearthed her from the forbidden corner of my room, she was not looking her best. But when I saw this bag, I screamed. Because I kid you not: I almost bought the exact same bag only weeks before. You weren’t expecting this many riveting twists and turns when you started reading this, were you?
I was noodling on buying because I have recently become re-obsessed with the Longchamp Le Pilage tote, courtesy of the cutest French Tiktoker family I have ever seen, who do group outfit of the days in the sweetest way possible. (I have caught myself saying “Look Du Jour” no less than 4,000 times in the past three weeks.) Will I ever be as impossibly chic and interesting as any of these people? Heavens no!! But one of them has a Longchamp and here I am, back on my bullshit.
She actually photographed pretty well considering the full bottom half of the bag is stained a different color from god knows what.
Anyway, where even are we in this endless tale? That’s right: the climax.
Instead of buying a new version of an exact style of bag I already own, like a fool, I did the rational thing for once: I actually started using the original bag again. Yes! The beat-to-hell bag. The one with stains, rips, an artful tear from my cat’s claws, a hole in the bottom. Suddenly I am in love with this bag, even though, frankly, it’s never looked worse. It’s like an ode to the Olsen twins carrying their wrecked Hermès. An investment bag should be worn to the ground, how else do you know you got your money’s worth?
It’s wild owning something all the way through the re-start of the trend cycle. Everything old is new again, but I have long since gotten rid of my tiny Dooney & Bourke purses and all my long, duster crochet cardigans. I actually have no idea if the Longchamp bag ever went “out” of style (I don’t consider myself a harbinger of trends, are you shocked), but I reached for it less and less till it disappeared into the sad corner.
Rediscovering this bag has actually somehow done exactly what I needed: made me look at all my possessions in a new light.
I always harp to my best friend (she’s the one who called my fresh, expensive ass bag a “grandma” purse, lest you forget) that I hate the right side of my living room, the wall with my TV. It feels impossibly hard to style, and if I could do it over, I would buy entirely different things. But the other day I had an aesthetic Youtube background video going on the big screen while I was reading my cozy little book and I thought “it’s actually so lovely in here.”
And remembering The Story of the Longchamp™ has made me nostalgic for all the little stories of everything I’ve bought through the years. The cream leather chair I thrifted three apartments ago, which is insanely uncomfortable to sit on, but a real vibe nonetheless. The hand-me-down coffee table from my old boss, which I immediately broke the leg off of then artfully glued back on (still holding strong!). The embroidered pillowcases I bought in Greece, and the tiny trinket dish from London. The ultra cozy and worn T-shirt I bought years back that proclaims me a “Lemon Poppyseed Slut” (I bought these for so many people that year, they came in all different ones — mashed potatoes slut, sourdough slut, you get the picture). All the things I’ve saved and scrimped and plotzed over. The ephemera of my life.
Somehow “shopping” my closet actually DID make me spend less, and appreciate what I have more (I’m just as shocked as you).
And inadvertently, it got me thinking… I’m proud of my life.
What a corny thing to say (I know, I know), but I actually am. Not that there aren’t a million things I’d do differently or a butt ton of things I’m always stressing over. It doesn’t feel easy, day to day. But still. Remembering the me who bought a Longchamp bag on a hope and a prayer made me realize that I think she’d love the life I have now. I picture her sitting here, on my fluffy couch with all my blankets and candles and books and my sweet, sweet little cat. I hand her a mug of tea, with a big squeeze of honey. And she smiles.
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P.S. When I tell you I scoured every device and app I have to try to find a photo of me with the bag circa the actual time I bought it. I KNOW I had at least one because I used to use it as a dance bag and I have a vivid memory of posting a styled flatlay of the bag to Instagram (in the days pre IG Stories when you edited photos directly in Instagram before posting right to the grid) of the bag with my pointe shoes spilling artfully out. But I must have deleted this post?? for no reason?? Just goes to show how much I fell out of love with the bag only to fall back in love years later. My fickle heart lives on.
Hey, Kelly here. Welcome to The Landline. Dial in for gentle deep dives into anything and everything I'm obsessing over at the moment (mostly sane, always silly). Grab your Diet Coke, wind that phone cord around your finger, and let's get to it.