By Stephanie Abbajay

I hate my purse. Or I did until Amy and I switched bags three weeks ago. She was sick of hers and I was unhappy with mine. So, one day, on a visit to her office, preventing her from working, I was talking about why I hated my purse and how unhappy I was. She said she was sick of hers but that she loved mine so we switched. And now, I am happy. At least for a few weeks, before Handbag Fatigue, a dreaded disease for which there is no known lasting cure, sets in.

Some of you women, who manage to carry the same bag every day and be perfectly happy, will not understand this disease. Others, and you know who you are, will understand it perfectly. The hand bag is an incredibly important item. It matters a great deal, at times taking on iconic and mythic status. For some of us, it’s all about the bag.

Amy shares this disease with me, and recognizes it. I once had to talk her out of a potential binge session: “Help me,” she said over the phone, “I’m in the purse department at T.J. Maxx and I’ve got eight bags in my hand.” I told her to take a deep breath, put the bags down and back away slowly.

For many people, shoes are the thing. (And for an unlucky few, it is both.) For a while I, too, had a shoe fetish, until years of bartending on hard concrete floors took their toll, and my shoe fetish dwindled first to an obsession and then to a craze. Now it is simply a strong liking. But I have bad knees and bunions, can’t wear heals or pointy toes and since I live on a mud farm, don’t waste money on Manolos, limiting my purchases to the more sensible L.L. Bean, Dansko, Keen and Saucony. By and large, if I can’t slip it on, kick it off and hose the chicken poop off, I don’t want it. For the record, my husband also has more shoes than me.

Handbags have taken the place of shoes in my repertoire. I have 25 bags in my closet (give or take) but I am always on the lookout for the Perfect Bag, another disease for which there is no real cure. One can only continue to shop.

My husband, a smart man, long ago learned never to question the number of purses and bags I have in my closet. He may ask, in a friendly manner, “Is that a new bag?” But he would never, ever, say something as dangerous as, “Another new bag? How many do you need?” That would be suicide. He knows better.

Here’s the thing about bags: they matter only to women. They aren’t like shoes, which can carry a message – think sexy kitten heels, stilettos, or thigh-high boots. Bags are strictly an accessory that matters only to the carrier and to other women. You don’t help your cause with the opposite sex by carrying a clutch or a hobo bag. Men don’t care one wit about a lady’s bag, expect that they’ll probably ask you to carry their sunglasses and keys in it. But they won’t touch it

In fact, ask a man to get something for you out of your bag and he will blanch with terror. In all my life, I have never known a man who would reach into my purse. “No way,” they say. Instead, they will pick it up by the handles and carry it over to you, holding it out and away from their body, like a bomb or a dirty diaper. What are they afraid of? And who taught them this fear?

No, bags are strictly for girls. Though I follow fashion news with the fervor that others reserve for the NCAA tournament and can wax with authority about Fendi’s latest baguette, Dior’s serpent clutch or why wicker is back, I am not a bag-of-the-moment type girl nor do I spend huge sums of money on handbags. Sure, I have a Coach or two, and my luggage is hand crafted red Bottega Veneta (bought in 1997 on my honeymoon in Italy when the dollar was mighty and the bags were an absolute steal. Those were the days.). By and large my bags come from Target, Payless, Macy’s and Rudolph’s -- which has the best selection around of of-the-moment and classic bags. It’s not the price, it’s the style, and when you buy a lot of bags, spending $2,850 on a Mark Jacobs Casey bag in raspberry red embossed leather, however much I want it, is just crazy. I may have a disease, but I’m not stupid.

If you are a man, this will all mystify you. Ditto if you are one of the women who can carry the same bag every single day. Jane, for example, loves her Louis Vuitton (who wouldn’t), carries it every day and is careful not to kick it under the table (and reminds others, sternly but gently, to be careful as well). Sue carries the same little bag every day and used to smile ruefully at me when we worked together, and ask “What could you possibly need to carry to warrant a bag that big?” followed by, “Is that another new bag?”

What can I say? It’s a disease.

Stephanie Abbajay bought an adorable cotton reversible hobo bag at Target last week. Actually, she bought two.