The murse

When I traveled to Toronto last week, I wanted to keep my travel footprint light. Instead of lugging around my laptop and its heavy cords and chargers, I thought I’d simply take my iPad. It has a tendency to rattle around my briefcase like a dried pea in a coconut shell, however, so I purchased a new carrier for it. A messenger bag.

Now, buying the thing, I was painfully aware that I was venturing into dangerous territory. Treacherous territory, in fact. Because while a briefcase is a manly enough accessory, a messenger bag—depending upon the make and the material—comes awfully close to being, well. A lady’s purse. A masculine lady’s purse, to be sure. A man-bag. A murse.

But my messenger bag, though a hairy-chested shade of khaki green and trimmed with leather in a bronco-buckin’ shade of brown, seemed closer to a grizzled old mail pouch carried by some smelly ‘baccy-chawin’ extra in a John Wayne western than something coveted by the Sex and the City cast, so I thought that perhaps I could get away with it. I do have a beard, after all.

My masculinity managed to deflect most of the man-purse comments from my traveling companions on the trip up. Then, when we got to the city, I thought to myself that handy as the bag had been for transporting my electronics and passports on the train, it would be a heck of a lot handier to put everything I’d need for the day in its pockets during the vacation itself. So I loaded it up with my baseball cap, sunglasses and case, camera, and phone. Then, for good measure, I threw in my sunscreen, a tin of mints, a little cloth for cleaning my phone and camera, and some headphones. And some Canadian change. And my subway pass.

It was when I was out on the street with my messenger bag hanging down my back, companionably flapping against me in a manly, manly way when I walked, that I realized I’d succumbed. I was carrying a purse. And what’s more, I didn’t care.

Toronto has an ordinance in which merchants now charge for carrying bags. So instead of paying, I would suggest that my travel companions put their purchases in my bag. “Stick it in my purse,” I said at one point, opening the mouth wide in a kitchen store. “Yes,” I said to several astonished, wide-mouthed friends. “I said purse. It’s a purse. I don’t give a darn. I love my purse. I love carrying a purse. So put your things in my purse and shut up about it.”

It’s telling that toward the end of our trip, when my little group walked into a department store with a display of luggage and bags, the others instantly started flocking over to the messenger bags and running their hands over them with little coos of pleasure.

So yes. I’m at peace with my purse. Shades of testosterone green and armpit-hair brown it may be, and a man-bag or a murse you may call it, but it’s a purse. I will carry it without shame.