The Case of the Exploding Drumstick

A girl named Marie once gave me some advice: never carry your $900 purse when around town with drunk boys. The night had gone swimmingly until we ended up at the neighborhood karaoke dive bar to watch local lushes warble Guns N’ Roses and ‘80s Madonna. When a pony-tailed man started in on “Dead or Alive”, one of my intoxicated friends, David, grabbed a pen from the table and started drumming on my boyfriend Eric’s open hands. By the middle of the song, David was totally rocking out; he was furiously drumming away when he noticed that little black splotches had appeared on his hands. He stopped, looked at the pen, and pointed to his makeshift drums, Eric’s hands, which were covered in black ink. Minutes earlier, Eric had taken my purse off the table and set it on his lap for safekeeping; he realized this, panicked, held my purse up to the light, and tapped me to get my attention.

I turned and the look on his face was pure fear. His ink-covered thumb and middle finger gingerly held up my purse, my $900 purse—no, my $900-without-tax white leather purse—that was spotted with big black ink blotches. I was absolutely mortified. I was dizzy. I was sick with the loss because the purse was most certainly finished. I grabbed it, held it out in front of me as if it was toxic, and started for home before I lost my marbles in public.

Once outside the bar, I turned on the waterworks. I wasn’t just sobbing over a fabulous purse—it was a very expensive, fabulous purse. To sum it up, a Chanel. At that moment, it didn’t seem silly or petty for me to be crying over a material item. To me, this was a huge loss and I was allowed to and would mourn appropriately over it.

After struggling to run-walk the half mile in between sobs uphill to my apartment in sky-high Veronique Branquinho wedges, I calmed down a little. That night, Eric worked desperately until 5 a.m. trying to get the ink out of the leather, but it was useless. The purse was ruined. I woke up the next day and recounted the story to all of my closest friends in different states, but in the end I felt like a fool. My friends didn’t see it the way I did; the bag had a price tag that they balked at. In fact, the numerous times I’ve recounted this story in the two weeks since it’d happened, most listeners chastised me rather than sympathized with me, “Why would you buy a bag that cost that much?!” They wondered why I’d wear such a thing out on a night bar-hopping with boys. They wondered why I wasn’t more watchful, more careful. They wondered why I was so upset when it was just a purse and not the loss of a limb.

I argued that it if I wanted an expensive purse, why couldn’t I have one? Luxury is not about being sensible! And why couldn’t I wear it whenever and however I wanted? You don’t pay that much money for a purse to leave it snuggled in its dust cover in its box. I didn’t buy it to collect it; I bought it to use it. You don’t buy a purse like that and worry constantly that it will get ruined; you buy it to enjoy it. Constant paranoia over the welfare of your designer bag is not enjoying it—that would make owning it completely miserable. It makes no sense for me to get scolded over spending the money that I spent because it’s my money. The moral of this story should not be, “Well, that’s what you get.” Would this be the same response I’d receive if my loss cost $30?

Accidents happen and, luckily, the purse is not a limb and will be replaced. I do feel embarrassed about how much I mourned over my purse because I was being materialistic. Then again, I think everyone owns something that they would be very upset about if lost, ruined, or stolen. Some people just don’t think it’s justified if it holds a high price tag because it means you’re taking a risk, but, hey, isn’t that what makes life exciting?

– Chako Suzuki