My stylish, one-and-only, adored bag of seven years died.

Not because it had any flaw or weakness, but because my bird chewed it.  I was in a writing groove and didn’t notice until it was too late that the zipper would no longer zip.  I seriously feel like I lost a family member.  Or a pet, maybe.

So for the last two weeks I’ve been bag shopping.  Online, of course.  Bags just aren’t worth the sore feet a real shopping trip would offer.  Online, a simple replacement bag for my darling doesn’t exist anymore.  I looked for other sleek, durable mini backpacks with lots of pockets, but they only come in purple, pink and yellow.  I just can’t do it.  Or they have a flap over the zipper, or no zipper at all, or aren’t made of nylon.

I’m a mother of four children.  I need Easily Reachable, Durable, Stretchable, Non-Stainable, Organizable Convenience in a Luggable size.  Is that too much to ask for?

My husband pointed out as I was moaning about this that there are entire industries built solely around making bags for women to carry their stuff in.

So I researched other options.  I had no idea Hobos, Messenger Bags, Satchels, CrossBody Bags, Totes and Clutches existed.  I had an inkling of their prices when a buddy of mine bought his girlfriend one for four hundred dollars.  I choked.

My baby was ten bucks.

The closest I’ve come is this hobo from HoboBags for the cheery price of $200:

And this shoulder bag from Coach for $600.

I mean, if I have to “invest” in a purse, I may as well get one I like.

I think I’m off to the outlets to see if I can pay anything under a hundred (gag) to meet my requirements, because I’m down to a couple of small, unzippered pockets for my wallet, phone, diapers, cheerios, writing spiral and lip goo.  I’ll post a photo when I find it, but it may be six or eight months while I save up my allowance.

I’m reading through the SCBWI conference notes since I didn’t attend, perusing the panel notes, illustrations and funnies strips, and thinking what I’ve often thought, recently: that writers and illustrators and comickers and all them–we’re just one with our pen.

I wonder sometimes if my reliance on a physical object to think clearly is a weakness.  (While I’m driving, for example–stay at least three lanes away!  Oh, wait, I have a voice memo app on my iPhone!  Hang on to your seatbelts, everyone, while I figure out how to record.)  But as I allow this to be my sacrifice to the Ink God, I realize how joyful the bond is.  Bonds aren’t necessarily bondage but links to something thrillingly greater.  Maybe someday I’ll figure out what that something really is….