How? When? What? Why?
I haven’t a clue. All I know is that one day my husband and his man bag walked in through the front door and I found myself immersed in the four stages of grief. His ‘objet d’art’, as turquoise as his eyes, and branded with the imaginative word ‘sport’, has decided that its fixed abode is the worktop in my previously quaint Cath Kidston-esque kitchen. The eyesore of eyesores… until I wedge it behind the champagne rack. This recent man bag intrusion is the hint that middle-age has approached him faster than it ever will me (I permanently birthday at 32 years, you should try it, it’s great).
Denial
This came first. I mean it would, wouldn’t it? Hubs walks through the front door after a day in the office and he has this bizarre sea-green hued contraption adorning his frame. My initial response was full on laughter. I know, it’s totally uncharacteristic of me to take the mickey out of anybody else’s attire. It’s just this was a side of my husband I wasn’t yet acquainted with. And my children laughed too. So that lets me somewhat off the Meanie Wife hook. But it just looked so absurd. It was like he’d morphed into a white socks and sandals dad. You know; the ones who wear their bum bags/fanny pouches for their traveler’s cheques and drive an estate car fully equipped with a hot flask of tea and a picnic blanket at all times… just in case. This was not the man I had married. This was not the guy I met on the dance floor of the Irish pub. The kids and I all did several double takes and then laughed some more deciding it just had to be a practical joke.
Except it wasn’t. So next came:
Anger
That was at myself. For I should have spotted the signs. With an increasing allergy to words and coins and an ever growing penchant for keeping up-to-date with the news, I should have seen this one coming a mile off. None of these irksome traits had been apparent when we first dated, when we tied the knot, and not even after the birth of our third child. But little by little his impersonations of an Italian road traffic policeman directing snail-paced Fiats had been creeping into MY conversations. Those piles of pennies had been invading our coffee, bedside and dining tables with feverish tempo, and the echo of Sky News’ doom and gloom ‘dum-dum-dum’ intro had been pervading the living room. The man bag was only ever going to be a matter of time.
Depression
That one took a while but eventually I realised it wasn’t a joke. He actually liked this thing which he had picked up from the market. I searched high and low for the clues. When did the seed get planted that taking this monstrosity out for the day was socially acceptable? And just in case you think I am describing a bright and beautiful take on a laptop bag, back up a minute! No. You see this is a slim fit pouch. I mean even my handbag is more practical.
You’d stuff a mobile into this, those treasured loose coins of his and perhaps a wallet. But that would be your lot. He claimed it was a ‘safety’ thing. But not even my reasoning with him that anything that was as visible from space as the Great Wall of China as his bag was would actually attract a bandit rather than throw them off course; that pockets were perfect for stashing one’s cash, could sway his one track mind. Were they #trending with his work colleagues? Had we invited friends round for dinner and he imitated another man’s ‘look’? I reached for the chocolate. And then the wine (and I never drink wine).
Acceptance
This is where I am at now. I am a believer in like attracting like. It’s no surprise then that the same thing goes for the stuff we don’t so much like. The more of my energy I give to loathing this fashion statement/social statement/number on the ageing ladder statement (whatever it is my husband sees his man bag as standing for in his eyes), the more the man bag grows. Soon he will but another, insist on alternating them to accompany him to dinner parties, weddings, work meetings and those rare nights when we have a date! It takes every ounce of my will, (man) bags of restraint and one helluva resistance to bite my tongue, but that’s what I do. And do you know what? Magically, man bag’s magical allure seems to be wearing off. I won’t count my chickens too soon… next week we’re away on holiday and how it won’t creep its way into a suitcase (or onto his person for the airport), I don’t know. But I did send him this link today.
I live in hope!
And I also hope you don’t have any man bags in your life… or if you do they are straight off the catwalk runway as opposed to something Del Boy and Rodney from Only Fools and Horses might try to flog you as they do a runner into the sunset… cackling wildly.
