The Gooch

I feel I need to preface this post with a few statements about my humbleness. See, I am not one for the finer things in life. It's not that I don't want them, per say, but more that I have been a student for so long, I simply can't usually afford them. I drive a seven year old Hyundai that is finally paid off next month, most of my clothes come from my sister's closet (which is not the name for a fancy store, but quite simply my sister's actual closet), and shopping at the Gap is typically a splurge for me.

The point is, I am as far from a Material Girl as you can get, about as far from that as Lindsey Lohan is from sobriety. FAR.

My sister Ellen, on the other hand, as her finger on the pulse of high fashion, and her palm on the backside of a smoking credit card. She loves herself some style, and boy, can she rock it out. She'll show up with the craziest outfit, and at first look, I'll be like, "What the...?" But the more you look at it, you realize, "Wow, that wackiness looks good!" She just knows what to wear, how to war it, and when not to wear it when the season's over.

And not only does she know style, she buys style. Shopping is to her what triathlon is to me. But more so.

I'll go to the Gap and be like, "Oh, I really love this sun dress for Nolan's graduation and I could probably wear all summer long to my million events, but its $78 . Maybe next time...." Ellen, on the other hand, will be like, "Oh, I love this Fendi Spy Bag that's all the rage in young Hollywood, and sure its more than my doctor-sister's car, but I'll really wear the hell out of it for the next months." And you know what? If ya got, spend it. More power to her. Just pass me the hand-me downs when your done. My style has no season.

And to take this a step further, Ellen is all about the finer things in life. Now, that's not to say she's "ballin'" but she just knows how to make the small things work. For instance, Devin and I went to her house after running the Chicago marathon two years ago. She had the most delicious shampoo and soft, fluffy towels that made you feel like you were a guest in Oprah's house. For her wedding, she by-passed the Crate and Barrels and went to this French boutique, and got the most lovely French country style plates and stuff (wow, see my knowledge about that stuff? Stunning, it is). I would never have thought about that, but yet she just knows the right touches.
So the point of my story - Last year I was at the Gap (surprise) and I needed a new bag for work. I don't EVER carry a purse, at least not since 8th grade when the Liz Claiborne ones were high style - you remember - the ones with the little triangles all over? But I do like myself a nice tote every once and a while. So I purchased a black (again, surprise) tote with leather handles. And ol' girl (aka The Bag) got me through the last year fairly well. Until it get really dirty. And the handles started to fray. And it began to look ratty.

But I held onto it. And every time Ellen encountered The Bag, she would ask, "Seriously, Meg - what's that about?" She would implore me - "You have a real jobby-job now - let's step it up!" or "What do your clients say when you walk in with that thing?" And still I carried the little bugger.
Until recently.

See, while I have been faithfully toting around The Bag, I have secretly been coveting a flashier, stylish, so-out-of-my-league brand. Said brand is beyond anything I would have ever lavishly spent on myself. In fact, every time Ellen would see me, she would ask when I was going to purchase said bag, "because the Spy bag is kinda embarrassed to be seen with the Gap one." And I put it off, put it off - spent my first REAL paycheck on my now-collecting-dust triathlon bike (hey, priorities, right?)

And then, The Gucci Gods smiles down on me in the form of:

Yes, there it is.

The Gooch.

It's too bad the black-and-white photo doesn't quite grasp the rays of sun bestowed now upon me wherever I go.

When I first walked in with it, my future brother-in-law says, "Wow, you got your self a nice fake." And he was serious. But let me assure you - this is not a fake. No siree bob. This is the real deal. The only thing fake about me is my tan.

Notice, though, that it is not outrageous. Not flashy, not gaudy (though I guess that's a matter of opinion...but mine is the one that counts when it comes to the Gooch). And not, NOT a purse. No, my friends, this is sensible, though stylish, tote that is a practical and classic approach to the briefcase.

Okay fine, and its awesome.

Somewhere down the road a black Gap bag is crying, stuffed back into a cold, dark closet, just waiting to be used in his next life as the passed-around Christmas gift everyone laughs at.

And the best part? I didn't even buy it - my family gave it to me as a gift as a thank you for some stuff I did. And a big thanks right back at ya, little Q's.

Nothing says pimpin' like rollin' up in the Hyudai rocking the Gooch on my shoulder.