The most fun I had in Florida was going to the outlet mall with Angie- go figure. I didn't really expect to have as much fun as I did; I was mainly looking forward to seeing Angie, the most frugal minded soul I've ever met, completely lose her inhibitions in the Vera Bradley outlet. I could not wait to see what complete unapologetic obsession looked like on her face- caution thrown to the wind, plunking that plastic down with a smile.
Like the favorite chocolate in your Valentine sampler, she saved her beloved Vera for last. She watched me drool over a bright pink bag at Dooney, impressed with my restraint as I blew it a kiss and took those difficult steps out of the store without it. I am a grownup, now.
We visited Coach so Angie could hunt for a purse for her soon to be step-daughter. Coach isn't really my favorite, but I can always find something that whispers to me. As I wandered around the store, moving in subconscious circles (Cory used to say I shopped like a velociraptor on the hunt), my eye happened upon the male mannequin in the front of the store. Could this be?
I called to Angie, in delight, as I stepped closer. Indeed, this fly faceless gentleman was carrying none other than a manbag...an extremely large, extremely well made manbag. A smiling, portly male sales associate with a receding hairline stepped over to offer his assistance. "Can I help you with something?"
And just like that, he had entered a conversation he probably never expected.
"Yeah, what is up with the man bags? Are they getting super popular or what?" I asked, as Angie listened, that watchful look on her face that says she's not sure just what I might say next, but here oh Lord, here we go.
"They are, actually. Are you looking for one for someone?" he asked.
"Umm, I guess I was just curious." I said, and shot Angie a smile.
Angie led in with, "She was just in Italy, and she said the men over there all carried them."
The salesman, I think his name was Jared, responded politely, "Oh, did they?"
I warmed to the conversation. "They sure did. They were everywhere, but much smaller, like a square shaped purse. I just could not figure out why they felt they needed them. Like what do they need to carry that won't fit in their pockets?"
Jared grinned, "Did you ever figure it out?"
I smiled back, "I did. You wanna know what they tote around town?"
"What?" he asked, leaning forward ever so slightly.
"Condoms! Just dozens and dozens of condoms!" I announced cheerily.
Jared burst into laughter, blushing to the roots of his sparse baby fine strawberry blonde hair.
"Oh...wow. Why would they need...so many... I wonder." he managed.
Always helpful, I burst out, "Well, they are very good-looking over there."
Poor Jared flushed a nearly eggplant color, and fixed his eyes on the floor. "Well, gee, thanks, us poor American guys can't compete with that..."
Oops, insert foot in mouth, and I felt horrible since Jared's strengths are clearly in his personality.
Oh, what the hell? flashed across Jared's face before he asked in a rush, "How did you find that out?"
At this point, Angie and I were cracking up. I sputtered, "I googled it! I didn't...like, personally research it!"
Angie broke in to let him know that in addition to a wide array of condoms, the European men also carry sunglasses, ID, smartphone, medication, lipcare products, and snacks for eating on the go.
Italian men don't like being referred to as feminine, so they have changed the term purse to il borsello, which translates to he-bag. Very manly. This would work for all the man-bags I saw in Rome, except the patent leather cherry red one strapped cross-body around a man with the face of an angel strolling the cobblestone with his equally attractive boyfriend.
Jared was still laughing as he walked off to answer the call of another customer, saying, "You guys have made my day."
Laugh if you will, Jared, but I wonder if you are now prowling the streets of Orlando, Coach manbag on your shoulder, filled to the brim with condoms. They do say hope springs eternal.
But onto Vera:
I must confess (and Angie, if you're reading, please forgive me) that I was not looking forward to spending a lot of time in Vera Bradley. Previous to my outlet visit, I have always associated Vera Bradley products with women of a certain age- upwards of forty, and embracing old age happily. Was it the stationary and pen sets I'd seen back home in Barnes and Noble? Was it the matchy-matchy principle of style that women my mom's age hold strong to? Your purse must match your shoes exactly and both must match your dress? Matchy matchy said conservative to me, and that is just not my style. I've always been a more little black dress with a pop of red shoes sort of girl. Was it the fact that the line is made of cotton, a durable, sensible fabric? I mean, if you can throw your purse in the washing machine, is that really a good thing? Or was it the signature quilting that took me back to those floor length robes that all mothers seemed to have when I was a child?
So as we crossed the threshold to the Vera outlet, I turned to Angie to see her eyes starry and bright. I grinned and asked her, "Miss Angie, are you feeling it in your vagina?"
She shook her head at me, and crept deeper into the store, picking up purses, wallets, and bags along the way. If you've every been shopping with me, you know that my idea of shopping together is to travel to the store together, then split up. I shop best alone, feeling free to misbehave without judgment. I wandered about the store, inspecting the clientele, so many middle aged women, new moms, and the occasional gawky teenager. These were not my people. I circled the racks, sniffing at purses that could be folded flat, and stacked on a shelf...how could they? Why would they?
Then something happened.
In a back corner, my eyes happened upon a retro looking brown pattern. I pulled the purse out of its stack, and examined it closer. It was a frame bag, in a shape reminiscent of Three's Company. I could see Chrissy slinging this over her arm to head out the door in her powder blue turtleneck and bellbottom jeans, worn with stacked heel toffee colored boots.
Now, wait a minute. I took a deep breath, slung it over my arm, and located the nearest mirror. There were possibilities here. It looked sort of bohemian. Maybe some wood bangle bracelets, a lace doily looking cream colored top, some hiphugger jeans, platform sandals. Dude, I haven't worn heels in a year. If this purse could get me in them, it would pay for itself. Or so I told myself.
Fast forward two hours.
In a bleary state of accessory induced bliss, I found Angie, who during the last two hours had systematically put down item after item, until all that remained was a measly little wallet, and an interchangeable strap. I was crushed.
Meanwhile, I had went around, sniffing out all the diamonds in the rough. Angie doubled over in laughter to see me approaching with Vera bags laddering both arms, wrist to shoulder, and any number of trinkets clutched to my chest.
"Miss Nicole, what has happened here?" she said, giggling.
"I love Vera!" I gushed. "I take back every bad thing I ever said. Look at all this cute stuff!"
Angie just shook her head as we found a bench and went through the painstaking process of picking through my haul for final purchases.
She walked out having spent a modest forty bucks.
Me? Not so much.
It would appear, that even in Angie's favorite store in the world, her core values remain unshakable.
And I, apparently, will shop wherever you take me. But I will find the cutest stuff in the joint. Guaranteed.
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