I've had you for two and a half years now, and I don't know how I feel about you anymore.The moment I saw you dangling from the shoulders of that well-dressed guy at school, I coveted you with such fervor. Seeing hordes of stylish people on the streets of Hong Kong toting huge LV monogram messenger bags didn't help quell my yearning.
I have never wanted an article of sewn-together canvas and leather as much as I wanted you.So I bought you, once I had saved up enough to pay your rather steep price. I placed you atop my table for a week, just admiring your meticulous stitching and the perfectly symmetrical placement of your monogram squares.
I carried you everyday, and enjoyed you despite your cumbersome flap plus belt thing closure. When I carried you, I got lots of compliments from my co-workers. Every time I opened you up to reveal that rich orange lining, I was pleased.
A long two and a half years have passed and hordes of kids in Hong Kong (and now even in my hometown Manila) are still toting those LV monogram bags, but carrying you doesn't make my heart flutter like it used to.
You have been demystified. The fact that every other office employee with a decent-paying job yearns for LV monogram as if it were the holy grail and totes those bags with such delicacy as if they were precious gems somehow decreases your value in my eyes.
Now I am torn, on whether to keep you as a memory of the many months I desired you and how I finally got you, or sell you to someone who would definitely enjoy you more than I do now.
I think I'll keep you, in my bag shelf, for just a few months more. Between my fanny pack and my mesh-and-reflectorized-piping sling bag from my raver days, you will rest for a little while more. For every time I open the closet and catch a glimpse of your linen dustbag, I will remember how even the most pressing of my desires can fade.