I Have 7 Bags
I have 7 bags.
A dump-everything-and-go tote for when I’m running errands.
Two “work” bags: a roomy caramel that can hold my iPad, notebook, and then some and a sleek black that can only hold the iPad.
An olive handbag, the bag I carry everywhere.
A pastel pink satchel that I carry mostly handheld for when I want a feminine look.
A vintage brown crossbody; a new addition I’ve only dared bring out once.
A phone crossbody for the rare occassions I need nothing more than my phone and a few cards.
Oh, and I have two clutches for events and sarees. You know those bags - purely aesthetic. Functionality? Not so much.
All the stuff I deem “essentials”, stuff I can’t leave my home without - cards, keys, headphones, mints, sanitiser, tissues - are always in the bag I carried when I last went out. I’m diligent about this, I never have my items spread across different bags.
Nor do I keep stray receipts or the loose bits and bobs you mysteriously acquire when you’re out and about: “Hi, would you like a sample of our new pefume!” “Here’s a pamphlet wiht a discout code for our new cafe!” “Would you like to buy a pack of tissues for a dollar? They help children in need!!”
My bags are meticuloulys cleared out after every time I go out. Either as soon as I’m home, or if I’m too tired, the first thing the following morning. No exceptions, no questions.
My friend produced a straw from Subway with the wrapper intact from her bag when I told her about my no receipts policy during a video call. She promptly decided to clear her bag then and there. That straw was the first of many “odd” items to appear on my laptop screen. A plethora of receipts, specifically one that was dated 2 years ago from a different country, a scrunchie she thought she had lost, a temporary bus pass she had purchased in desperation when she couldn’t find her actual one, loose change, random plastic wrappers, and still more receipts. ”Oh my god, my bag is like, so light now!” was what she said as she packed her stuff back. I laughed, telling her not to be ridiculous for how heavy can slips of paper and a scrunchie be? She simply returned, “No, what I don’t understand is, how are you so organised?!” She also added she needed to go check her other bags.
I’m starting to discover my sense of “organisation” is a bit of an oddity the more I talk to people, especially fellow women, about what they carry in their bags. ”That’s IT?” seems to be a popular question. Well, of course, I carry items I don’t really need - axe oil and paracetamols for the headaches I anticipate when going somewhere too bright or too hot. I’m considering buying that Tide pen that stops a stain it its tracks - I’ve not needed it thus far, but I’m starting to wonder if it would be better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.
But I’m also starting to wonder if this ruthless clearing of my bags is a coping mechanism; a thinly veiled metaphor for a greater problem: I don’t clear my headspace as much. I certainly don’t check my emotions to this extent. I happily tote around garbage I really don’t need: “Can’t believe she just judged me for my skintone, why are people still so shallow?”, “I can’t believe they said I can eat porridge if the guy’s income is low”, “Why did I try to drag the dead corpse that was that friendship over the threshold of life two years too long?”
The redemption arc is to say cringing at a past memory shows growth, and maybe they do. But there are plenty of memories I cling to that have no purpose other than to bring down my day or leave me on edge. Still, I relive these memories, experiencing the full spectrum of emotions that consequently arise. I would be on a train, on the way to meet a friend and an unpleasant memory would surface. Or at a really nice dinner. Or while I’m watching a really good movie.
Why?
The solution is obvious, clear my headspace ever so often so these things don’t happen again. Which I kind of do. Journaling helps. Writing things on the Internet for people to read, helps. But I’m starting to wonder if there’s more I can do to clear out my infamous emotional baggage, rather than projecting it on my actual bags.
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