Back in those days I carried all of my vital belongings in my book bag, making no distinction between personal and business items. This was largely because I was 16 years old and I didn't really have any personal or business items. Maybe I had a little cash and some change. I had my driver's license and my keys, and a tube of lip balm. I didn't carry any of the wonderfully secret things a woman conceals in her purse, so why would I need one?

This purse got to me. For no logical reason, I had to have it. It wasn't very big, not even big enough to fit a Barbie doll. It was wooden with strips of studded tape along the edges and a domed lid with a handle on top. It looked just like a treasure chest, only much smaller and with a simple latch closure instead of an intimidating series of padlocks and chains. It was fully lined in luscious red velvet that made the inside seem even smaller. It was sitting on a shelf off to the side of the store, next to a blue plastic pill-shaped purse with a see-through lid and a pair of pink patent leather shoes. It wasn't the flashiest thing there, but it just seemed so me.

I paid $25 for it, which seemed at the time (and as a matter of fact still does seem) like an extravagant sum. My little treasure chest went everywhere with me, my paltry few possessions rattling around inside it.

The treasure chest was my first attempt at using accessories as an extension of my personality. I felt it project the very image I wanted people to have of me – tough, mysterious, full of exciting secrets and ideas, quirky, warm-hearted, and unique. An individual. Of course, it was also loud, clunky, demanding, hard to handle and frequently annoying. It was difficult to find things in the purse, difficult to open and close it in a hurry, and when filled to just over half its capacity it felt like I was lugging a brick. Still I loved it and I was prepared to suffer for it.

One day we were out at a coffee shop, my little treasure chest and me. All of our friends were there, crowded around one small, round table sipping cappuccinos and giggling. We all got up to go shopping somewhere, I don't remember where, and as I rushed toward the door in a flurry of teen energy, the edge of my beloved treasure chest kissed a flimsy press-board table. The table grudgingly shuffled two or three inches backward from the force, but it remained essentially unharmed. My poor little treasure chest literally exploded. Two of the sides ripped away from each other and also from the bottom of the chest. The box fell away from the domes lid with such force that one of the hinges was partially torn out. The disintegration of the purse was so violent it scattered everything in it across the floor. I grabbed most of my things fairly quickly, but I couldn't chase after every coin that rolled frantically away. I lost more than just some loose change that day; my passion for purses evaporated like a puff of smoke on the wind.

I did try to salvage things. First, I used wood glue, but it never really set. It just gummed up the velvet lining. Then I removed some of the studs and tried to nail the two sides back together, but they were very thin and one of the nails poked out most unattractively. Worse still, the alignment had shifted and the little latch no longer worked properly. If more than a feather were stored in the purse at one time, it would simply flop open. At last I had to admit that my little treasure chest was no more.

You may think this a trivial matter, but to me it had profound repercussions. Never again would I stare longingly at a purse or spend a significant chunk of my disposable income on it. To paraphrase a quote from my favorite film, I do not avoid purses, but I do deny them my essence. However, in this year of living girlishly, perhaps even an old handbag cynic like me can learn to tote again.