It's a satchel!
I turned 45 last week. There is a whole long rumination I could write about growing older, but that’s not what I want to talk about today.
I’d like to tell you about the birthday gift that I got from my kitten.
She has a talent for good presents. She tends to pay close attention to offhand remarks that I make, and then make mental notes about it. Two years ago, she got me Phil the Philondendron, after I had remarked that I wished I was able to keep plants alive. She did the research, found the hardiest plant she could think of, and gave him to me. Phil has occupied a spot on my desk ever since, and he’s been thriving.
Last year, she spent hours upon hours of combing Marktplaats (basically Craigslist) until she found a gorgeous leather chair for me. I expected it to be slightly battered, but it turned out to be near new. It’s been a pleasure feeling the leather become supple over the past year, as it moulded itself to accommodate my posterior.
And this year, she did it again.
On our trip to Scotland (which I really should write about!), I’d remarked that I was juggling too much stuff, and how I tended to use my backpack as a way of keeping everything I needed handy, but that it just didn’t always work. Again, she filed that away for later, and on my birthday she presented me with a lovely leather bag.
It was exactly the colour I like, she’d made sure that it would fit my e-reader, in short, she’d put in all the same care as went into the previous gifts.
I should have been overjoyed, but I felt a different mix of feelings. I was happy, I felt seen, but I also felt an unpleasant feeling in my chest. It made me uncomfortable.
She’s always very attuned to my emotions, so she immediately picked up on my reaction. I could tell that she was a bit insecure about the gift herself, and she assured me we could exchange it if I didn’t like it.
My first impulse was to go full people-pleaser and assure her that I loved it, but I managed to stifle that one. That’s not how we work. In fact, she’d probably pick up on the dishonesty and rightfully feel that I was lying to her.
So, I took a moment to ponder why I felt so uncomfortable.
Did I dislike the bag? Nope. But, it looked like a purse to me. Hmm, OK, so it’s a gender thing.
Did I feel that it didn’t fit my style or gender expression? No, I actually really liked it. So, what did I fear? Ah, got it! I saw myself getting ridiculed by other men. That was the core of it.
I basically saw myself replaying this scene from The Hangover:
Phil: [sees Alan with his new satchel] You’re not really wearin’ that, are you?
Alan: Wearin’ what?
Phil: The man purse. You actually gonna wear that, or you guys just fuckin’ with me?
Alan: It’s where I keep all my things. Get a lot of compliments on this. Plus it’s not a man purse. It’s called a satchel. Indiana Jones wears one.
Phil: So does Joy Behar.
So, there it is again. Our old friend toxic masculinity.
The ironic thing here is that I love it when men dare to step outside the narrow confines of traditional masculinity. I have friends that wear skirts, and they look amazing. My brain weasels often don’t align with my conscious values, instead they’re voicing all the crap I internalised while growing up.
I took a step back though, and tried to look at the bag objectively. It was awesome. Good storage space, lovely colour, and most importantly: it solved a problem for me. So in essence, I was afraid of being punished and ridiculed for being me, instead of conforming.
Well, fuck that.
Over the past 5 years, every time I have chosen to stop conforming and instead show people who I really am, my life has gotten better.
So, I’m going to tell the brain weasels to shut up and proudly wear my bag.
And that scene from the Hangover? Well, Alan almost had it. He named all the practical benefits, but he missed the most important thing.
It doesn’t matter if it’s a satchel or a purse. Men get to wear purses.
Clothes and accessories don’t define us. They can be a form of expression, but we get to decide for ourselves what they mean to us.