The Irony of Things

I recently received two gifts that I never would have asked for and really didn’t want. It turns out, though, that I like them both and am glad to have them.

I was very surprised a few years ago when I noticed a woman carrying what looked to me like her cosmetics case as a purse. I think my mom used to have a pretty zippered case made of quilted fabric in the drawer where she kept her make-up. Or maybe I’d seen someone packing jewelry for travel in a roll-up case made of pretty quilted fabric. Regardless of where I’d picked up the association, it seemed to me that carrying this pretty quilted bag—identical to ones normally used to stow small feminine items inside a larger case—was tantamount to wearing your underwear on the outside. It seemed indecent.

And I seem like a prig, don’t I? Sometimes I am. I’m working on it.

Anyway, I learned a while later that the woman was of course carrying a Vera Bradley purse. And then every woman seemed to be carrying a Vera Bradley purse. And now . . . I am carrying a Vera Bradley purse.



My mom bought three, kept one, and gave one to my sister and one to me at Christmas. I didn’t want it. My mother knows I’m not much for the girly stuff, as she has in fact said to me, “Why don’t you like pretty things?” I started using the purse, though, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. (See, I may be a prig about weird things, but I’m a NICE prig.) It turns out that the colors in the purse match nearly everything I wear (even if the girly style/pattern CLASH with my clothes and emotions), and the size of the purse is ideal for me. I also like all of its little pockets. So . . . I didn’t want the thing at all, and now I kind of like it.



Kind of like how, at a friend’s insistence, I tried on a pair of her daughter’s Ugg boots and was amazed at how warm and snuggly they were . . . and she kind of sent me a pair for my birthday (which is tomorrow, in case anyone else would like to send me something unasked for and/or expensive). I didn’t want Uggs. They’re ugly, and they make me think of Paris Hilton. I don’t want to have anything in common with Paris Hilton. You know what, though? These things are cozy and comfy and oh-so-warm that I’ve been wearing them every day. I sprayed them with suede protector, so they keep my feet dry. I don’t tuck my pants into them, and I won’t wear them with skirts, and I still think they’re ugly, but when the temperature is below zero as it has been, these ugly boots totally rock, much like the moon boots I had in grade school. Only those were black and silver, and made me feel like I had something in common with Darth Vader, a shared association in which I took great pride . . .

So here I am, enjoying my unwanted, trendy, brand-name items. This begs a question: Do the people who gave me these gifts know something about me that I don’t?