Lets Talk About My Handbag

A couple of months ago Rob and I had a long weekend in Paris. I’d be lying if I didn’t say one of the highlights of our trip was the exchange of money for the delicious handbag pictured above.

I adore handbags. Love them. I get a warm fuzzy feeling when I open my wardrobe and see my babies all lined up together like colourful clams. They make my heart sing and if my house caught on fire, after we got the kids out they’d be the first thing I’d go for. Rob thinks this behaviour is highly disturbing.

A couple of times a week I ask him the same question.

“Rob would you like to talk about my handbag?”

“Erm .. no, Steph.”

“Why not? I mean look at it, it’s so beautiful and soft and full of lovely?”

“Because it’s stupid, and cost too much.”

“But you’re wrong. That handbag brings me so much joy. How can you put a price on my happiness?”

“You’re insane.”

And then he usually shakes his head and walks away.

So clearly I’m married to someone who doesn’t share my handbag appreciation, but I can live with that. Mainly because I couldn’t care less about his boring stereo equipment either (‘stereo’ – is that still the word we use? I have no idea) or the latest iPhone app he’s obsessed with.

Or the car.

“Steph, do you know that you can press this and the suspension does [insert technical babble here]?”

Me “You know what, Babe, that’s terrific to know but as long as the car has parking sensors and excellent cup holders I really don’t care” .

So we live in harmony. Me with my handbags. He with his boy toys. He doesn’t ask what mine cost, I don’t ask what his cost and we live together like peas and carrots. Mostly.

What’s your shopping fetish?