Finding Religion

I have a new religion. And with the fervor of any other convert, I am preaching it--most recently, to a woman on the NYC subway, which distinguishes me from the guy wearing a homemade sign around his neck that says "Let Him Save You" only by my lack of pamphlets. All I have to offer is my story when a stranger comments on my state of grace as I, without looking, retrieve my metro card from my bag, swipe, and replace--a triple gainer out of the pool of fumbling humanity at the subway gate. I explain, with lowered gaze and all possible humility, of the salvation found in the most sacred of our spaces: the female handbag.

Like any other addict, I don't only buy; I use. Carrying the same handbag every day would be like wearing the same underwear--the benefits of a change-up are too obvious to question. A new bag shifts the consciousness. I find that moving from a Jas M.B. hobo to a Prada pouchette is all the help a woman needs to find her inner Audrey, complete with perfect posture and an urge for a French cigarette.

All's fair in my handbag armoire, where a 50's thrift store find leans up to a Furla, not suffering any language barrier. But this peripatetic life leads to a paradise lost, or at least a favorite lipstick. It's always a new schematic of compartments that may or may not hold an iPod, cell phone, or the sunglasses you swore you would always keep in their case. Which leads to lots of digging and groping, which culminated, before I was born again, in dumping out the contents of my bag onto the concrete. Nothing clears a crowd like a woman saying the f-word and turning her handbag upside down, it turns out. I finally found my gum, but found I no longer wanted it.

Those misdeeds are behind me now. As the proud owner of an "organizational insert system" of my own invention I simply transfer my bag-within-a-bag from one purse to the other. It's not perfect. I have to actually put things exactly back where I got them. And it has done nothing to get rid of my bills or my under-eye circles. But it has made me feel in control, even if for just for a few moments a day. And, to me, these days, that's heaven.

Seeing things

Yesterday, as I was hurrying up 58th street after dropping off yet another pair of shoes whose heel-tips had been eaten by the escalator in the Time Warner building, I saw a man who was standing still as those running upstream split around him. He was clearly not on speaking terms with social reality, which made me not only like him right off, but also gave his face a look that was both centered and petrified all at once. He was grounded, but his feet were on a planet entirely his own.

It is not uncommon in New York City to come across humans acting strangely, being as this is a city full of oddity, perhaps most especially among the rich. If you ever need to do a paper for your psych class, just bribe the doorman of any building on Sutton Place, sit in the lobby and watch the OCD parade. It's not pretty, but believe me, you will have material. No, this man's strangeness had a kind of perfection to it, untainted by any outside force like too much money and not enough talent. He was pure, gaunt, and, if properly cleaned, could pass for any used-to-be-aristocracy European.

After nearly knocking him down, I backed up and away, taking him in. He looked me in the eye and gestured--his right hand to his heart and bringing his left hand, open-palmed, down to the street--as if to say, don't you even see me? I lingered in his loneliness one moment too long. My throat swelled; I looked away and walked on to the subway.

On the train, a woman announced she was homeless, had MS, and a 13-year old daughter. She said she would take anything: food, something to drink, anything. I started to do what I always do: pretend I am important; I have to check my phone. And then I remembered that I wasn't, and reached for my wallet, not caring what she did with it, or even if it was true. When I gave it to her, she didn't look at me. She just mumbled, habitually, God bless, not seeing me, and walked on.