In my mind, the prototypical bag carrier is still returning from the farmers market carrying a load of fresh ginger in a nice canvas number she got for free at the New York Public Library shortly. after the departure of her youngest. You know the gender. You’re probably wearing some sort of sun-dyed draped shawl, flowy, voluminous linen pants, super practical shoes and, say, a floppy sun hat? You certainly know the type. About to miss her subway stop because she’s engrossed in a dog-eared copy of last week’s metropolitan section and hasn’t had time to collect all her Fairway shit before the train starts running again to move? It’s her. Give a hand, man.
Hell, this woman might represent the purest distillation of my summer aesthetic to date. Are you telling me you wouldn’t want to be like that woman? This woman has seen shit, man. She raised no less than three children in New York. Do you know how much bullshit you have to put up with to raise a fucking kid in town? Don’t let her indefatigably cheerful temperament fool you: a girlfriend could screw up your whole week with a well-placed—disappointed, but not upset—comment about the dirty laundry piling up on your bedroom floor, little it doesn’t matter how adult you think you are.
This summer, do like your local Upper West Side empty nest and grab a tote bag so you have enough space to store all the Italian sausages you end up buying (instead of the bok choy you you swore) after locking eyes with the cute deli stand attendant you hoped to impress with your financial largesse and studied appreciation of finely cut bologna.
Tote bags, man. They will get you every time.
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