By Psykhe F. Azarraga
After a couple of weeks of unplanned silence (Thank you, fever and viruses!), I’m back. Not exactly with some deep reflection on life and all its serious turns—though believe me, I had plenty of dramatic thoughts while curled up in a blanket wondering if I’d ever feel normal again.
I still have a cough, by the way. But I’m eating. So, we celebrate progress where we can.
Anyway, this piece wasn’t planned. It came to me by surprise. From a photo, of all things. One that was supposed to be sweet and romantic… but took a very different turn in my head.
There’s a photo—no, you can’t see it—but you don’t need to. You’ll understand everything by the end of this.
I’m sitting beside my husband, glasses on, smiling sweetly. The glasses make me look like someone who’s pondering life’s deeper questions. And I am—just not the kind you’d expect. My current philosophical dilemma? Is this bag worth it?
Now, this bag didn’t just appear out of nowhere. This has been a slow-burn love story. I didn’t say much at first. Just a quiet comment here, an observation there. A nod to the craftsmanship. A whisper about how so-and-so’s bag was already cracking. Maybe a passing mention of “heritage leather” while pretending to scroll something educational. I wasn’t being pushy. I was being… strategic.
And then—life did its thing. I got sick. Not just “sniffles and soup” sick. I’m talking full-blown, lost-my-appetite, throwing-up, fever-and-cough sick. The kind of sick that makes your husband hover like a worried nurse—or maybe a very dedicated doctor—who also happens to know how to draft wills, deeds of sale, and other cheerful paperwork, just in case.
He was concerned. Rightfully so. Checking my temperature every hour. Keeping water beside me. Gently reminding me that life is still beautiful and that I would, in fact, get through this.
And in the middle of one of those quiet, comforting moments … I remembered.
The bag.
Not that I’d truly forgotten. It had been living rent-free in an open browser tab, quietly waiting for me between naps and nausea. But in that foggy, feverish moment, I turned to him and said—softly, with conviction:
“I think I need the bag.”
He blinked. Calm. Not surprised. Just a quiet man watching another chapter of our life story unfold.
Because he knows me. He knows I don’t go around saying I need something unless I’ve already compared bags, checked the leather, read reviews, peeked at resale prices, and imagined my future grandchild holding it like a family treasure.
And also, I just need this bay … I just really need it.
And this isn’t just about the bag, you know. Maybe more about therapy. Okay, it’s a little about the bag.
Because love isn’t always grand gestures or perfect harmony. Sometimes, it’s quiet presence. Unshakable patience. Holding the emotional weight of your partner’s shopping cart while she clings to her last ounce of dignity and a very specific wishlist.
He listens. He nods. He lets me be who I am, even when who I am is deeply committed to retail therapy as part of my recovery plan.
We sat there, side by side. Me in my glasses, looking deceptively composed. Him, looking like a man who’s seen things—strong, steady, possibly pricing out bags in his head.
And no, I haven’t bought the bag yet. But I’m close. Dangerously close.
***
To be continued … Depending on the next discount alert.
