Musings of a handbag addict in the time of Covid-19
It was in 2018 when I began to splurge in luxury.
I was diagnosed with an ailment that could be cured only through major surgery, one that required Informed Consent forms and End of Life instructions. And I was scared. I had never been under the knife. Never got an appendix or tonsils taken out. And I delivered during my pregnancy in the natural way, with no epidural. I never tried anesthesia either, so an invasive operation posed an allergic risk.
But as terrified as I felt, I did not have time for it. My doctor scheduled, with my agreement, the soonest availability of the top surgeon who would perform the procedure. And it was only five weeks away.
So I shrugged off the fear and started planning. Because of the risks involved in the surgery, I had to prepare for the worst-case scenario. I researched how to do a Living Trust and Will, and drafted them following the rules of legality. And in the process of gathering information and listing the variables in the documents, I came to realize the severity of the prudent life I led.
I came to realize the severity of the prudent life I led.
From the moment I started working in my teens as a fashion model to my current management profession in the private sector, I used the 80/20 method in salary distribution. 80% went to investments and savings. The remaining 20% would be on the cost of living. There were variations in some years, but predominantly I never spent more than 30% of my income.
This changed when I got married. But the assets I had prior were kept separated. And I had not touched them since. They compounded in growth throughout the years.
As I started identifying and assigning who would receive what in my Will, I had conflicting feelings. On one hand, I felt proud I would leave no debt and no burden. There would be enough for post mortem expenses. And some more to disperse, not a massive wealth by any means, but modest enough to feel good about leaving something behind for my loved ones.
And on the other hand, I also felt regret. Because in the prime years of my youth, when one typically indulged or made expensive mistakes, I was too stringent with my spending and did not allow for frivolities. Simply put, I shortchanged myself. I felt the need to always prepare for the inevitable. And now that it was happening, I felt sorry for myself, to no one’s fault but my own.
I was too stringent with my spending and did not allow any frivolities. Simply put, I shortchanged me.
Whoever said people do the uncanny in a moment of fear and anxiety would find my case the perfect example. I started a conversation with my husband and told him I completed my Will but I set aside funds to buy the luxuries I always wanted to own. And he was all for it. He had been offering to buy me trinkets and expensive things through the years. But I refused because I was being practical. No one praised or patted me on the back for that. And as I reflected in my vulnerable state on all those lost opportunities, I could only shake my head. I was foolish.
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So in the weeks before the surgery, my husband accompanied me to the urban streets in the bay area where the legacy fashion brands would be on full display. In the past, I would steer clear of these places and just admire the merchandise from the display window. This time I walked in confidently, like Alicia Silverstone’s character in the movie ‘Clueless’ when she embarked on a mission of retail therapy. I welcomed the relaxing VIP treatment of the sales associates when they offered refreshments and a comfortable seat on the store sofa. And they were patient and accommodating when I requested to see the collections in varying colors, shapes, and sizes. I milked the attention for what it was worth, and I ended up bringing home three luxe branded handbags.
The remaining days before the surgery was spent enjoying my purchases. I visited cafes and took Instagram-worthy photographs with my bag and a cup of cappuccino. And before I checked into the hospital, I wrote love notes and inserted them into the zippered pockets of the bags. They were meant for my collegiate daughter to find in the event of my passing. And as the new owner of the bags, I requested if she can take care of them well enough to pass them to her future kin.
Then I wrote love notes and inserted them into the zippered pockets for my collegiate daughter to find in the event of my passing.
But as things turned out, my daughter would have to wait. And hopefully much longer before she could inherit these luxury handbags. The surgery was successful with no post complications. And I recovered well and healed with little pain.
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In the aftermath, however, when my health was no longer an issue, I felt a tinge of buyer’s remorse. Incredulity dawned on what I had done and the money I had spent. And to ease the guilt, I utilized the idle time of my twelve-week recovery period by selling online nearly fifty preloved contemporary handbags and fashion jewelry. And it was a successful undertaking. I put funds back in my pocket and felt satisfied to do it through sustainable means.
However, there was a caveat to owning heritage brands with a legacy of excellent craftsmanship and high-quality materials. I no longer had any interest in any mediocre or fast-fashion brands. I kept the three luxury bags in pristine condition and sporadically used them on rare occasions. But I continued to curate handbags in the mid-luxe range until I had a small collection of sixteen. It was easier this time to permit my indulgence with #yolo reasonings [you only lived once]. Although I had set a strict parameter. I cannot purchase on a whim. There had to be qualified reasons — If I had a 15th work anniversary, I bought a bag. If I received accolades in a yearly performance review, I bought a bag. If my work or project met recognition, I bought a bag. If I had a birthday or anniversary, then my husband would buy me a bag [lesson learned: I no longer refused].
If I had a birthday or anniversary, then my husband would buy me a bag [lesson learned: I no longer refused].
I also put a limit on the collection that it must not go past twenty pieces. If I wanted to add, I would have to sell one from my existing stock or other beloved items such as jewelry or gadgets. This kept my curation specific, small, and controlled.
With these two restrictions, I enjoyed the selection process much more. I painstakingly researched each piece, from the legacy story, the genius designer, the resale value, future price increase predictions, etc. And it must covet rave reviews in style and craftmanship from discerning handbag collectors, fashion reviewers, and critics. I wanted to ensure whichever bag I chose would be used for a long time, but sturdy enough to be a part of my daughter’s inheritance.
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And so I have accumulated a beautiful array of handbags. They prettied up the shelves in my abode, next to my fashion books, where, if not in use, they stood as sentimental trophies. They looked so enticing to use in all their stylish splendor and glory. But unfortunately, they remained untouched and on display for almost a year.
However, they remained untouched and on display for almost a year. They had nowhere to go.
Covid-19 happened. It was the haunting pandemic that kept people from all over the world sheltered in their homes and in fear of being near others. In the seven months of city/county/state lockdowns, the statistics continued to be disheartening. Infections and deaths kept getting worst by the numbers. There was no vaccine. And the health experts gauged it would take at least a year before any were safe and effective to use.
So what do I do with my handbags? Do I fret and regret? Or shrug and let things be?
I decided to write and ridicule myself. It was the perfect time to express disappointment for being wasteful, pandering the ego, and feeling so privileged. I could vent all the negative, typical, critical, and judgmental assumptions that luxury handbag owners often tell-taled in the private handbag chats from their experience when they carried a Chanel, Hermes Louis Vuitton, Fendi, or Christian Dior.
But I could not write any of those. Instead, I found myself back to the journey that brought me to the path of purchasing these luxuries. And I realized my story was as unique as everyone else’s.
Each has its own rhyme, reason, and definition of indulgence. The only common denominator was our handbags had nowhere to go in time of Covid-19. But then again, so were we.
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