Reasons why I never want to own a designer handbag

In six months time, I turn 25 - a full quarter of a century, and, when I was 16, the age by which I thought I'd have a mortgage and a bun in the perfect middle class aga (please contain your laughter until the end). As I've aged, matured and concluded that only the very privileged or determined/slightly insane can score all of these life points this at such a young age, my proposed milestones have become comparitively smaller - doing laundry before I run out of clean tights, actually saving a little money each month instead of spending it on gin and lipstick - and until recently, owning a fancy shiny bag with a big tacky logo on the front. 

A designer handbag often seems like the finishing touch on your mental picture of your adult self: a symbol of success, status and style, and for most of my life I've thought a Mulberry was all that stood between me and becoming Alexa Chung. Then I started thinking about the realities of spending more than a few notes on something I take with me everywhere, and these are all the reasons why it's not a good idea:

I eat almost constantly
I don't know if I've mentioned this a hundred billion times before, but I freaking love food. I love buying food, cooking food, eating food, taking pictures of food, talking about the food I ate yesterday and planning what food I'm going to eat tomorrow - so much so that I've turned it into my daytime career. Aside from a depleted bank balance and love handles that will not quit, my obsession with all things edible has given me the spectacular ability to get stains and sticky finger marks all over every single possession I own. I ban myself from buying £4 white t-shirts on this basis, so I'm sure as shit not going to spend upwards of £300 on something that will invariably end up covered in tomato soup and biscuit crumbs. 

I carry pens

Recently I had to buy a card for a friend, and so I bought a seemingly innocent looking biro to fill it in on the bus. I tossed it casually in my pleather Topshop tote, naively cooing 'ooh, that'll come in handy later, what a successful adult I am!' - blind to the blotchy horror that was about to unfold. Two weeks later, I sat at my desk, pulling gloopy ink-stained items from the depths of each inner pocket - which, once a pretty pale pink, had now become a murky 90s tie dye. Not only had I ruined a three-week old white iPhone 5 and my favourite leather purse, I had ruined my bag - and I can only imagine my anguish if the costs were comparable.

I take my entire make up collection with me EVERYWHERE 

So, if I've not already destroyed my hypothetical quilted Chanel with the blood of 1,000 innocent pens and packets of week-old Belvita, I also wear an absolute trowelful of foundation every day. Subsequently everything I own eventually becomes a vaguely dirty shade of orange, and unless my expensive bag was a very specific shade of tan, this would be troublesome. Make up, rather beautifully, is not bound by colour and can stain black, white, blue, red and any other hue with equal ferocity - but if that hue has cost me half a month's rent, I'd probably find this less beautiful and more tear-inducingly infuriating. 

I take the tube

Much as I love public transport and all of its quirks, the tube is an utterly filthy place. Just blow your nose after you get off the Central line and you'll see what I mean. But it's not just the pollution that makes me question the cleanliness of the seats I sit on daily - I've seen beer, milkshake, burger sauce and even, on one truly revolting Monday morning, an absolute volcano of baby sick sprayed across those seats, and I'm not convinced that they're scrubbed with any kind of enthusiasm. Would you drag your most precious object through an array of those substances? No. Thought not. Me neither - and I wouldn't let other people sneeze and sweat on it either. 

THEFT

Each day I leave my flat secure in the certainty that no opportunist, no matter how desperate they are, is going to steal my current battered Zara zip-up. Many opportunists, on the other hand, would like to steal a shiny new Longchamp with the (supposed) array of credit cards and expensive technology contained within. Clever thieves target those who appear rich and wealthy - so yes, there's a reason I constantly look this tired and scruffy, AND ITS ALL TO AVOID THIEVERY. 

There are many other things I'd like to buy with £450 instead

Post university, I've found out just how expensive it is to exist in London at all, and the possibility of buying a house seems like a pipe dream that depends solely on the inheritance of a mystery relative or my unwavering dedication to scratchcards. However, the cost of a designer bag that I will inevitably wreck is another baby step closer to that dream. I think we have established that I am not a careful human, and therefore my money is much safer, more productive and useful in the savings account I keep it in. Until there's an ASOS sale on, obviously. 

Things that happen when the job you really want is advertised

It takes a second to register. A lightning-bright tweet in a feed full of grey. That job you really, really want - it's available. There's a contact and a deadline and a job spec and everything - and your skills fit the brief. Emailing your application is the obvious step, but before that point you will most likely experience all of these: 

The manic state of elation

“My time has come!” you roar, as you Google the location of the offices and plan your route to work. You practice your best introductory smile in the nearest reflective surface, and start picturing what you'll wear on your first day (an outfit much more stylish, flattering and expensive than anything in your current wardrobe, obviously). You browse for stationery for your shiny new desk, and plan the first cake you’ll bring to the office to impress everyone with your culinary prowess. You end up in a 31-deep recipe-and-Paperchase tab hole – despite the fact your covering letter currently consists of your full name and Twitter handle, and nothing else. 

The comedown

Pesky, disappointing reality - the kind that tells you that you can’t survive solely on Coco Pops, and Ryan Gosling will probably never actually be your boyfriend - sinks in. You realise that you haven't actually proved yourself yet - and bagging yourself an interview is like clutching at the shiniest needle in a massively oversubscribed haystack. You open the employer’s website to start your research, but immediately start thinking about how much knowledge and experience the other candidates probably have. Crippling self-doubt ensues, and you sob internally for several hours whilst binge eating Kettle Chips and chain reading articles you wish you’d written.

The wanky CV meltdown

You get your head back in the game and finally put the pen (well, virtual cursor) to paper. You got this. You've been training for it since before A-Levels were a mere whisper on your horizon. You've got the experience, you've got the knowledge, you've got the qualifications - you've even got that evening course that your mum paid for when you were unemployed to 'give your CV a boost'. You know this, but you can't figure out how to convey your brilliance without sounding like an arrogant tosser. You tell your flatmates you’re taking a ‘screen break‘, and go to the shop for more Kettle Crisps. And a Cornetto.
 

The proofreading obessesion

The writing is done, but there is definitely a spelling mistake in there somewhere – you just haven’t found it yet. You’ve read it so much you’ve gone slightly cross-eyed, so you start handing out copies during trips to the pub and supplying everyone with teacher-style red pens so that they can point out your mistakes before the people you’re trying to impress inevitably do, whilst scrawling a big red cross through your name. Your poor boyfriend has read the same three paragraphs seven times. You demand he reads it again – carefully this time. 

The waiting game

It’s as ready as it’ll ever be. You spend at least two hours agonizing over your opening email, attach your week’s worth of hard work, and hit send. You then spend 75% of your daily life from then onwards refreshing your email constantly, even though the closing date isn’t for another week – because if you stare hard enough and long enough, you might just see the glorious Inbox (1) you’ve been waiting for. Fingers crossed!