12/16/2009

Faux Purse

As I've gotten older, I've gotten less trendy and more sure of my personal preferences. So sure, that I gaily said to another mom today at preschool pick-up,
"I love your purse! It's so fun!"

The "purse" in question was hot pink. From a few feet away, it looked leather. I swear. I thought it was fun and offbeat.

Apparently it was actually a cosmetic gift-with-purchase bag that the woman's daughter uses as a play purse. I don't even think it was pleather.

Needless to say, it was like a flashback to seventh grade when I thought my crush came up to talk to me because he might like me back, but in fact he had a mirror on his shoe and I was wearing a skirt.

Because, really, what do you say when you realize that you've been supremely, embarrassingly naive?

Not that I had a crush on this woman, but I didn't exactly want her to think of me as "that bitch who thinks I'd carry a hot pink plastic bag" or "that poor woman who doesn't know what leather is supposed to look like".

Unlike seventh grade, I did not turn tail and run into the girls' room. I babbled something about liking pink too much. I did not convey my mortification, I'm pretty sure.

Yet I'm putting it out here for public consumption because I'm not even sure I should be so embarrassed. Most of the people I know fall into 3 categories; those who could care less what people thought, those who wouldn't think of giving another person a compliment and those who would have known that the bag couldn't be this woman's purse.

I will never make it into category 1. Despite tabletop performances of "Baby Got Back" during karaoke nights at more than 1 bar in Kansas City (in my defense, I was really drunk. . .each time), I don't like it when people think I'm an idiot. Make that "people I know".

Category 2 is not really me either. I like compliments.

In my youth, I'm pretty sure I would have been in category 3. But now I have 3 kids and I'm a freelance writer. . .I probably would use a gift-with-purchase bag as a purse, if it was cute enough and big enough.

I think I'll just have to embrace my naivete. Because I'm 38 years old and I'm just going to have to accept myself. Though I don't accept boys with mirrors on their shoes and women who carry their daughter's purses the same way they'd carry their own. That's still wrong.