Totes

Painting attributed to Willem van der Vliet, early 17th century in [Public domain].

A man will call it a 'bag' no matter what it is.

It makes a woman feel like a bag lady.

We all have them. Some are bulging, few are empty, all are recognizable like the childs voice to its mother.
There is the cross-body strap style which was thoughtfully designed to distribute the burden more evenly across the back. How thoughtful. Shoulders are still integral to this onus.

Could you keep these keys/glasses/wallet/stub for me (?) he asks rhetorically.
Of course, there is room to spare.
That is how we learn to save space for others and their other things.

A book bag is a bag worth its weight in pulpiness. Heavy, yes, if not comical.

Another ilk of book-bag with back-straps and a small handle at the top is also called a back-bag, I mean backpack. As you may guess, it is designed to be work on the back. And I do not mean the sixty-pound backpacking back-pack with a frame, but rather a frameless sack kind of backpack with the minimum of a big pocket (or two) and a smaller zippered pouch in the front. 

It should be noted that the small pocket alone, when removed from the backpack, is also called a fanny pack, but this is worn most often around the waist and on the belly, not to be confused with a six-pack. 

Women's fashion designers have picked up the stench of repressed molestation desires and marketed  the schoolgirl look toward professional working women to remind them being sexy and youthful are as important as earning half as much for doing twice the work and as valuable as skillset, lesser than intelligence. It's a lot of math, I know. Averages are for dumbing down such complexities and recycled theories.
The ones wearing backpacks are sadly defeminized. Women who walk into their corporate offices, no longer wearing pantyhose and heels but are brandishing bejeweled mini backpacks in lieu of a purse, wearing sensible shoes and taking selfies as if Instagram was acceptable for mature audiences. 

This is more than a zipper versus snaps preference. 

There is nothing social about social media. It is all algorithmic and has no beat.
One platform is not better than another, both are built on code and cookies.
Have you tried standing on a cloud?

The satchel I wear now doubles as my constant luggage. Actually I am pretty sure it is luggage. And like the homeless, most women carry some prized obsessions on their persons. The only truly private place being a deep dark sack that no man or child dare reach into with a bare hand for fear of... 

We women switch our bags like mascara. 

And it is quite common to do so for an occasion, for color, for size and to simply tailor our totes to the outfit. This is not a finicky thing, it is about having the right tool for the job, as most men would say. 

I have become quite attached to the canvas ecru sack I currently carry. This one has a cord with a hook attached to the interior liner that I have clasped my key ring onto. When I need to find my keys I simply pull the cord and am able to locate my keys in one-third of the time it takes other women to fumble and find with their own pink phalanges. 

I also watch YouTube videos at one and a half times the regular speed. 

I may not switch ever again.

The book called, “The Things They Carried,” by Tim O’Brien laid out for the American nation the fact of the matter (is that) packing light feels anything but light on our backs. And that all the things we carry can actually be completely concealed.

I always loved the name Justin Case.

I am a writer and as one would reasonably expect there is an impressive variety of writing implements I carry, a full arsenal one may say. Highlighters, ball-points, red gel, good old broken lead are afloat like fallen limbs inside the dark well, this thing also called a purse. Like PB & J, writers and their pens require paper and captured half-written ideas, To-Do lists never done, grocery lists of ingredients long gone, faded receipts destined to be filed in the trash receptacle, an empty mint container, and a wide black hairbrush. Naturally, I do not wear much make-up so I only have some rose-scented Vaseline for dry lips, some hand lotion for dry palms and wet-wipes for sticky meals or dirty deeds. For low energy, I have a back-up power source, a wallet with 8 credit cards, a library card, a AAA card, a Staples Rewards card, a couple gift cards with less than two dollars credit remaining, a couple of photos, a special poem, a secret ten-digit number and assorted forms of positive Identification. There is a small pillbox with medicine for allergies, headaches, heartaches, backaches and most other painful fakes, there is some loose change waiting to be useful, there are a few floating paperclips unattached to any paper, there are three gummy bear packets, a pocket flashlight and a book of matches for emergencies or opportunities.

I have taken the bears out from their hibernation on many occasions and needed to replenish my supply many times over. The stomach growls. It is bear-ly noon.

Sunglasses and reading glasses, plastic and paper, cookies and cream, shaken and stirred, lugged and hauled, pricked and preened, tweezed and matted, stuffed and starving, jammed and jarred it is all there just as I remember collecting for Justin Case, including all nine different hair ties.

It is too much.

I have to hold it in front of my body when navigating narrow channels. I throw it on the back seat when I drive. It is also a travel bag. 

I left my zipper down. Things could escape but instead, things get sucked in. I snapped under the weight of it all. His lips stay sealed while he holds in his brief-case. This is where deals are made and the 52 card pick-up is played clean. I have tried not to become too attache(d) to the end of the game. Measurable by how much we carry our things with us and white knuckle clutch the slippery intangibles as if learning a little levitation was the only thing left to do before we finally let go of these weights.

Why are the pockets on women's clothing so small? 

There is not much more to gather I guess.

It’s totes a conspiracy.

Image credit: State Library of New South Wales collection, 1928 [No restrictions].