It Bag Anonymous
March 18, 2007 | 12:00am
Suddenly the place to be is not catching the last snowflakes at St. Moritz or "summering" (hate it when they use a season as a verb, especially if your ancestors didn’t descend from the Mayflower) somewhere exotic.
Yes, the place to be is in rehab. Who would have thought that Keith Urban would start a craze? I guess being married to a trendsetter like Nicole Kidman rubs off on you. Kidding. I mean, my heart bleeds for Britney (I’m still Team Brit; I’m still loyal) and a little for Robbie Williams and not really for Lindsay Lohan.
I went to a sort of rehab, too.
It’s called It Bag rehab. Yes, for years I have collected and amassed a vulgar collection of It Bags. It started innocently enough. The first was a baguette from Fendi and then later on a daintier Croissant, or the other way around  I don’t really remember. Then something took over me. Suddenly I had to have every one of them for no reason aside from greed, which is perhaps the deadly sin that most becomes me.
I guess you could call those little Fendi buggers my gateway bags: they were, for all intents and purposes, black, basic and boring. So was my Kelly which l have decided not to use until I’m 40 because nothing is more aging than a boring, black Kelly in calfskin leather to an ingénue like me. (Of course, this only applies to me and my deluded psyche; not to offend anyone.)
Soon, I wanted more exotic fixes.
It started by having a different colored bag, a turquoise instead of a black. My Fendi Spy bag felt unique until I saw someone toting the same thing while wearing head-to-toe Roberto Cavalli in Hong Kong (it was the "kept woman" It Bag). I needed something more special. So I bought a gold python Spy bag, which the guy at Fendi promised was the only one in stock. I’m sure he was lying. The crudity and ostentatiousness of it was too much for me to bear, I had to have it. By negotiating a Faustian deal (which was not a first for me when it comes to bags) I got my golden Spy bag. The following week, the B Bag exploded and I got my patent blue B almost before it was put out in the windows.
After a few weeks, it felt plain. Like nothing. My tolerance was getting higher. So the moment I laid my eyes on a pale pink-and-yellow sequined B bag encrusted with crystal beads, I reasoned that it matched with the yellow-and-pink diamond ring my fiancée gave to me as a promise ring after being together for three months. No one had it and I had to have it. After another Faustian deal, it was mine. I took it out once and the delicate lace that covered the bag was almost burnt by some male model with a cig. I never dared to use it again.
The rest was a blur, a flurry of motorcycle bags, more Fendis (my bag of choice at that time), the gargantuan LV Stephen with the pony hair and then a mountain of Chanels (in its defense, Chanel is no It Bag freak and is my current bag of choice). The funny thing about this was, I couldn’t really afford it. Every month I pondered how to pay for these bags. My head hurt and my anxiety levels were off the charts. I would go to the office at the STAR every Wednesday to close YStyle, and Bea Ledesma would eye my new arm candy and say, "Another one." I would cover the bag sheepishly with my cardigan or under a pile of press releases. Classic symptoms of an addict: feelings of guilt and shame.
My "moment of clarity" came when all my It Bags  all 30 or so of them  fell on me in my closet. I was buried in them.
Those "eat" bags were out to kill me. This prompted me to do two things. One, move out of what my generous and kind friends call my "jewel box" apartment, which was more like a shoebox, really. And two, stop this bag addiction. I had all the signs of an addict. I bought all of these bags, each outpricing the last, with no real means of paying for them. If you see my Amex, which my friends have, it’s melted from all the activity  really. It looks like a Zaha Hadid-commissioned credit card, if there were such a thing.
It took over my life. I no longer went out, I just scouted Net-a-Porter on what to acquire next. And like every addict (sex, drugs, alcohol, food, even the Internet), I had a major crash. Mine happened quite literally. I sold some bags and gave the proceeds to charity.
During a trip to Australia where I got to interview Australia’s coolest designers for a fashion special, a pair of them remarked when I came in with my turquoise Spy bag (my favorite along with my white Chanel and ratty Balenciaga Classic): "Oh, a Spy, how quaint!"
I told them almost defensively (please, I’m still in my healing process) that it was my favorite and I could fit everything in it. I proceeded to show them the holes in the bottom, telling them I intended to work them until it died, like a mail-order marriage gone wrong. This bag came out two years ago and, in bag years, it’s as old as Brooke Astor.
Status anxiety. Who would have thought I would be its patron saint? But I was. Of course, everyone needs an obsession to feel human. My new one is home stuff  chandeliers in particular. Let’s just hope it does not fall on me because that would really hurt.
Yes, the place to be is in rehab. Who would have thought that Keith Urban would start a craze? I guess being married to a trendsetter like Nicole Kidman rubs off on you. Kidding. I mean, my heart bleeds for Britney (I’m still Team Brit; I’m still loyal) and a little for Robbie Williams and not really for Lindsay Lohan.
I went to a sort of rehab, too.
It’s called It Bag rehab. Yes, for years I have collected and amassed a vulgar collection of It Bags. It started innocently enough. The first was a baguette from Fendi and then later on a daintier Croissant, or the other way around  I don’t really remember. Then something took over me. Suddenly I had to have every one of them for no reason aside from greed, which is perhaps the deadly sin that most becomes me.
I guess you could call those little Fendi buggers my gateway bags: they were, for all intents and purposes, black, basic and boring. So was my Kelly which l have decided not to use until I’m 40 because nothing is more aging than a boring, black Kelly in calfskin leather to an ingénue like me. (Of course, this only applies to me and my deluded psyche; not to offend anyone.)
Soon, I wanted more exotic fixes.
It started by having a different colored bag, a turquoise instead of a black. My Fendi Spy bag felt unique until I saw someone toting the same thing while wearing head-to-toe Roberto Cavalli in Hong Kong (it was the "kept woman" It Bag). I needed something more special. So I bought a gold python Spy bag, which the guy at Fendi promised was the only one in stock. I’m sure he was lying. The crudity and ostentatiousness of it was too much for me to bear, I had to have it. By negotiating a Faustian deal (which was not a first for me when it comes to bags) I got my golden Spy bag. The following week, the B Bag exploded and I got my patent blue B almost before it was put out in the windows.
After a few weeks, it felt plain. Like nothing. My tolerance was getting higher. So the moment I laid my eyes on a pale pink-and-yellow sequined B bag encrusted with crystal beads, I reasoned that it matched with the yellow-and-pink diamond ring my fiancée gave to me as a promise ring after being together for three months. No one had it and I had to have it. After another Faustian deal, it was mine. I took it out once and the delicate lace that covered the bag was almost burnt by some male model with a cig. I never dared to use it again.
The rest was a blur, a flurry of motorcycle bags, more Fendis (my bag of choice at that time), the gargantuan LV Stephen with the pony hair and then a mountain of Chanels (in its defense, Chanel is no It Bag freak and is my current bag of choice). The funny thing about this was, I couldn’t really afford it. Every month I pondered how to pay for these bags. My head hurt and my anxiety levels were off the charts. I would go to the office at the STAR every Wednesday to close YStyle, and Bea Ledesma would eye my new arm candy and say, "Another one." I would cover the bag sheepishly with my cardigan or under a pile of press releases. Classic symptoms of an addict: feelings of guilt and shame.
My "moment of clarity" came when all my It Bags  all 30 or so of them  fell on me in my closet. I was buried in them.
Those "eat" bags were out to kill me. This prompted me to do two things. One, move out of what my generous and kind friends call my "jewel box" apartment, which was more like a shoebox, really. And two, stop this bag addiction. I had all the signs of an addict. I bought all of these bags, each outpricing the last, with no real means of paying for them. If you see my Amex, which my friends have, it’s melted from all the activity  really. It looks like a Zaha Hadid-commissioned credit card, if there were such a thing.
It took over my life. I no longer went out, I just scouted Net-a-Porter on what to acquire next. And like every addict (sex, drugs, alcohol, food, even the Internet), I had a major crash. Mine happened quite literally. I sold some bags and gave the proceeds to charity.
During a trip to Australia where I got to interview Australia’s coolest designers for a fashion special, a pair of them remarked when I came in with my turquoise Spy bag (my favorite along with my white Chanel and ratty Balenciaga Classic): "Oh, a Spy, how quaint!"
I told them almost defensively (please, I’m still in my healing process) that it was my favorite and I could fit everything in it. I proceeded to show them the holes in the bottom, telling them I intended to work them until it died, like a mail-order marriage gone wrong. This bag came out two years ago and, in bag years, it’s as old as Brooke Astor.
Status anxiety. Who would have thought I would be its patron saint? But I was. Of course, everyone needs an obsession to feel human. My new one is home stuff  chandeliers in particular. Let’s just hope it does not fall on me because that would really hurt.
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