I have a new theory about women. One that arrived, uninvited, while I was zoning out, standing in line for coffee at my local neighbourhood haunt. The woman in front of me unzipped a purse the size of a child’s hand. Inside it (I can only imagine): a card, a lip balm, and evidently not a care in the world.
I am now convinced there are two kinds—and only two—of women in this world. A binary designed not by gender theorists or sociologists but by one thing: big bags versus tiny purses. There are women who carry almost nothing and women who carry practically everything.
The first woman's life is a sort of effortless edit: no creases, no cortisol. She does pilates or hot yoga, she takes her time with things, and she’s never fussed. She is the kind of person you just know is always wearing matching underwear, even if it’s never seen or meant to be seen. She smells of vanilla. Her hair always falls perfectly over her shoulders in a Dyson-esque wave. In The Devil Wears Prada, she would be any of the girls who appear before Andy in the opening title song sequence. She knows—instinctively, mystically—that the day will unfold without needing a backup plan or a spare anything. She evidently doesn’t have multiple panicky alarms set across the days, buzzing her brain with reminders. She glides through life with her Goyard mini perched on her wrist that could, in theory, hold exactly one almond. Maybe. Yet she does not fret. She does not crumble. She does not need.
The other kind—my kind—are walking contingency plans, recognisable by our devotion to big bags. We schlep across the city like urban mules, every facet of our existence clanging inside canvas, leather or that one sturdy nylon tote we swear by. We are Mary Poppins meets soccer mom meets field archivist. Protein powder? Yes. At least two notebooks? Obviously. Tissues, receipts, chargers, an entire pharmacy, a souvenir from a European trip taken during a more optimistic era? All present.
You can tell everything about us by the weight we sling over one shoulder: the unfinished to-do lists, the “just in case” extras, the tiny domestic comforts we pack to soothe the unexpected. We carry Band-Aids for shoes we haven’t worn yet. Snacks for hunger not yet felt. Books we may or may not open, but that we need near us like talismans.
I’ve tried, on occasion (night outs or a walk to my downstairs shop), to change my bag size and be the woman of the small purse. It lasts eleven minutes. I immediately begin to miss things I don’t actually need. I become twitchy, unmoored, haunted by the thought of a pen I didn’t pack.
I’ve realised that big bag women are the logisticians of life.
We are planners, overthinkers, pre-empters of 99 potential catastrophes and three imaginary ones. “Go with the flow” is only possible because we have packed for all possible flows—monsoon included. It stresses us out, but we do it anyway.
Meanwhile, the small-purse woman simply arrives. A minimalist deity, she floats. And she trusts the world to carry itself.
Whichever bag lady you may find yourself resonating with, from tiny purses to unapologetic big bags, we have scouted the most stylish options for you.
Small bag girls
Big bag girlies
