The differences between men and women are nowhere more confusing than in the ritual of gift-giving. Two years ago during the hectic holiday shopping season, I was initiated into one of the great gender mysteries of all time — the world of women’s handbags. I was sent to the mall on an errand to find a pocketbook for my sister-in-law for Christmas. This is the same woman who once received an unwelcome shock when I (accidentally) picked out a jar of skin-firming cream as a present. Anyway, realizing that the stakes were high for me to redeem myself after that fiasco, I headed to Macy’s in search of the ideal purse.
There is no way I could have been prepared for this. Despite having a Ph.D. from Chapel Hill, I discovered that no institution of higher learning in the world — no matter how good its basketball team is — can equip a person of my gender to select a designer handbag. Remember in the third Indiana Jones movie where Indy had to choose the real Holy Grail from a pile of fakes? Remember what happened to the bad guy who chose the wrong grail and suffered an excruciating death? Now you understand what I was up against. Women, so I’ve come to learn, are deadly serious about their handbags.
First of all, the pocketbook section at Macy’s was about twice the size of most airports. A uniformed man with runway flashlights was pointing people toward the Kenneth Coles, while an overhead sign read, “Giani Bernini Section — two Blocks Ahead.” Every few moments, a voice over the intercom announced that “The train for the Nine Wests will leave in three minutes.” Overwhelmed, I wandered aimlessly for a while, surrounded by acres of patent leather. Eventually I saw a sign that said “Coach.” Seconds after I started browsing, an eager saleswoman descended upon me, carrying a credit application and accompanied by an accountant. At first I didn’t know why.
When I said that I was looking for a handbag, this helpful professional asked some follow-up questions: “Did I want a shoulder bag? A clutch? A duffle? A carryall? A swingpack? A hobo? A flap bag? A crossbody bag? A Chiara bag? A Pacha Top Zip bag?” I almost answered, “I’d just like a regular purse, please,” but I thought better of it and said I was in the market for a clutch, this being a familiar term to a guy.
Here came the options: “Are you looking for a flap clutch? A plated clutch? A metallic clutch? A Bridgit clutch? A satin clutch? A straw clutch? Are you thinking of our Optic line? Bleecker? Carly? Heritage? Hamptons? Legacy? Coach Ergo? Do you want the double zip-top closure? Turnlock closure? Chain-link strap? Belted accents? How about patent leather? French leather? Pebble-grain leather? Annalisa leather?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell the lady that all this lingo was wasted on me, so with my hands on my hips and sniffing like Barney Fife, I played it cool and said I’d like a pebble-grain leather clutch with a signature denim tote and a side of whip-stitched hobo.
Amazingly, they had one in stock. When the clerk started to ring it up, I awakened to a horrible truth. Coach bags are not cheap. In fact, for the price of a Coach bag, I could rent the kind of coach that took Cinderella to the ball, or fly roundtrip to Zambia in coach, or hire Coach Mike Krzyzewski to help me polish my layups. But there was no way I was spending that kind of money on a pocketbook. Sheepishly, I asked the woman if she could point me to the Wal-Mart brand.
I had always heard of people being thrown out of department stores, but I didn’t think it literally happened. You don’t want to mess with the bouncers at Macy’s. Fortunately, a woman outside the store had set her Hermes Kelly bag on that ground at just that moment, and it broke my fall. She later sued for damages.
Granted, it is hard for women to surpass men in our ability to blow money on ridiculous things. As long as Home Depot, Bass Pro Shop and Mercedes Benz are still in business, men will always overspend on tools we will not use, “in-our-dreams” sporting equipment and cars that do not impress girls nearly as much as the commercials imply they will. However, if a crocodile Birkin can go for as much as $65,000, then women may fast catch up to us in the frivolous rush to waste cash. For me, I’ll just keep that cash in my patent leather foldover strapless Alfani wallet, complete with a Powertrain clutch.
Dr. Claxton is on sabbatical this semester. This column originally appeared on March 21, 2008. Look for new columns in 2014.
