I was recently cast in a staged reading of the play Love, Loss, and What I Wore by Nora Ephron, Delia Ephron, and Ilene Beckerman. The show is a collection of monologues telling the stories of women and their lived experiences through the clothes they wear. It begs the question: How do the clothes we wear impact the life we end up living? During our first few rehearsals, we were asked to reflect on what pieces we felt a deep connection to, and why. I decided to put my reflection into words, and that’s what this piece is: My Melted Muppet Purse.
The streetlights above us were bright like the smiles on our faces. Two girls who barely knew each other, dancing towards the car as if it would take them on a journey to conquer the world. As the birthday girl looked back at me, she paused, noticing the bag across my shoulder. It wasn’t the first time someone had paused at the sight of it. My heart sank, anticipating what was to come.
The bag looks like a melted Muppet—a glamorous melted Muppet that appears to have spent one too many minutes under a heat lamp. It’s white with sparkles patterned meticulously across the pleather fabric. Front and center are two big, bright, blue eyeballs complete with drag queen-like lashes. They sit above a vibrant pink zipper that acts as a mouth. These elements form a face with a startled expression set against a patch of white hair. Despite the bag’s distinct appearance, I find it cute. I received it as a Christmas gift when I was ten, and for the past eight years, my melted Muppet purse has accompanied me on numerous adventures exploring the world.
When I first got the bag, I was relentlessly made fun of for it.
“Eww, why is it looking at me like that?”
“Frida, you have to get rid of that thing.”
Whenever I wore it, my “friends” would find a way to give me a hard time about it. The seemingly innocuous jokes were evidence of an even bigger problem: my willingness to be in relationships where I wasn’t truly seen, valued, or cared for. These were relationships where I would receive a side eye for passionately reciting the lines of A Midsummer Night’s Dream during the class read-through. I’d even hold back my laughter, so I wouldn’t be judged for my tendency to get carried away and snort. The looming shadow of loneliness was more frightening than being the butt of jokes or compromising to be included.
So there I was, standing in front of this new girl on her birthday. Her bright red hair matched the high top Converse she wore. The entire night we had bonded over musicals, goofy socks, and the tragedy that Christmas can only be celebrated one day a year. I felt euphoric, infinite, understood, and like the night couldn’t possibly get any better. Until she turned to me and noticed my bag—my beaten up, sparkling, purse of a partner. Together, we waited to feel the punch of the joke.
“I love your bag, it’s cute!”
That was it. You could call it a cosmic connection, or the stars finally aligning, but in that moment, I knew this girl was my person. The bag sitting comfortably near my hip was one I had worn a billion times before, but it had never been complimented the way she just had.
The girl with the bright red hair would quickly become my other half. A forever friendship was ignited, sparking core memories of love and belonging. All our late-night therapy sessions in her car, text messages debriefing the latest episode of The Bear, and the bouquets after every one of my theater performances are mementoes of the kind of relationship that I dreamt of when I was younger. Except it was no longer just my dream—but my reality.
Her unconditional support makes me feel like I’m not too wacky for this world. Her choice to celebrate the melted Muppet purse in me allows me to celebrate it within myself. Now I strive to highlight the parts of me I was ashamed of and got used to hiding. Now I have the confidence to shamelessly sing an off-tune rendition of Olivia Rodrigo’s “So American” in front of everyone at parties because that is authentically who I am. I am the melted Muppet purse, and I wear my zipper lips and withering frosted tips with pride.