When I was twenty-five, I went to New York City for the first time. To go on a date, if you must know. Because I didn’t have a carry-on bag, I borrowed a messenger bag, a man bag, a murse (that’s man purse, Mom), from my friend Justin. They were all the rage back then, and Justin, ever-trendy, had half a dozen to choose from. The one I picked out was navy blue with an orange accent stripe. This was perfect because I’d just opened my dance studio and the bag matched my logo and business card colors.

During my time in New York City, I fell in love in more than one way–with my date, with the city itself, and with Justin’s man bag, as silly as that sounds. But seriously, it was fabulous. Not only was it my favorite colors, but it had pockets for everything–business cards, four pens or pencils, you name it. Ugh, I’m a sucker for a good pocket. So when I got back to Arkansas I told Justin I was keeping the bag. Like the good friend that he is, Justin didn’t put up a fuss.

For the better part of a decade, my man bag and I were inseparable, outlasting that three-year relationship that began in New York City or any other I’ve ever had. My bag and I saw the world, went on dozens of trips together–to Denver, Baltimore, Toronto, Mexico, Abu Dhabi, and Thailand.

With time, my man bag began to show signs of wear. (Don’t we all?) But get this shit. Several years ago some of my friends and students, Joe and Loretta, gave me a new one–here comes the weird part–that looked EXACTLY like my old one. No kidding, I guess they found it stashed in a closet somewhere, but it was identical to mine and had never been used. The tags were still on it. I can’t tell you how over the moon I was. Later that night I switched everything from one bag to the other. Y’all, it was so easy; the pockets were all the same, and I already knew where everything went.

That’s one of the things I love about my man bag–I know where everything goes. Sometimes after a difficult day when nothing else in the world makes sense, I can organize my bag, and it’s like maybe I can’t control anything that matters in my life, but I can control this. I can control where I put my business cards and pens. I wonder how many times I’ve done this, pulled items out or shoved items into my bag–Tylenol, lip balm, audio cables for dance gigs. I’m sure it’s in the thousands. It’s weird. I’ve never thought of myself as being attached to that bag, since technically it’s been attached to me. But since it’s literally been a container for my life–it’s held my money, my lunches, and almost every book I’ve read in the last decade–I guess we’ve been attached to each other. I’ve carried it, and it’s carried my stuff. My friend Bonnie recently said it smells like me.

Also, I’m not sure that was a compliment.

Earlier this week Bonnie gave me a new man bag. Not because my old one smelled like me, but because she’d gotten me one for my birthday last September but the box had gotten lost in the shuffle of their packing. (She and her husband are getting ready to move.) Oh my gosh, y’all, the new man bag is so sexy. There’s leather and everything; my old one was just nylon and rubber. I really was/really am excited to have it. Still, when I switched all my stuff from one bag to the other yesterday, I didn’t know where everything went. The new bag, although technically larger than the old one, I think, doesn’t have nearly as many pockets. I thought, Where are my business cards and pens going to go? And what about my audio cables?

When that relationship that started in New York City fell apart, it was Memorial Day weekend, and I was in Tulsa with Justin. A friend called to tell me they’d heard my boyfriend had cheated. For hours I couldn’t reach him. During that time, Justin drove me home. Finally, I got my boyfriend on the phone. For two hours I paced the neighborhood, and we hashed it out. The entire time, Justin walked nearby, never saying a word. When the conversation was over, I was single again. I remember feeling like someone had punched me in the gut. I collapsed. Not knowing what else to do, I took a shower. Then I gathered everything my ex had ever given me, put it in a box, and shoved it in a drawer. It took years, but I eventually threw it all away.

Healing from that breakup took years too. I saw my ex a number of times after that and remember wanting everything to go back to the way things were before. Since we’d dated long-distance, we’d spent thousands of hours on the phone, and his voice was so comforting. He was a fabulous listener. Part of me always knew we wouldn’t last, and yet he was like that messenger bag I’ve slung over my shoulder for thirteen years–familiar, something I wanted to hold on to. But, of course, we don’t get to hold on to anything here. At some point, everything changes and you have to let go. For years you keep your glasses in a certain pocket, and then overnight there’s not a pocket for your glasses anymore. You think, What’s going to hold my glasses? When you’re suddenly single, you think, Who’s going to hold me? In time, you figure it out, how to take your old life that used to fit into that space and make it fit into this space, how to be okay with fewer pockets, how to carry and hold yourself instead of asking a bag or a boy to do that for you.