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This April, a group of astronomers led by NASA announced the discovery of a previously unknown, supermassive black hole in a part of the galaxy long considered to be a cosmic backwater. It was a discovery that captured the world's headlines – and my attention.
Areas of interstellar space so incredibly dense that even light can't escape, black holes were predicted by Einstein's general theory of relativity in 1916 but had to wait until 1971 to have their existence confirmed.
Since then, through continued discoveries and some highly-educated guessing, astronomers tell us that black holes are so numerous it would be impossible to count them all. What, then, made this particular discovery so noteworthy? The answer is twofold: 1) Its sheer size, weighing in just shy of 17 billion suns, and 2) Its completely unexpected location, which prompted the world's media to breathlessly suggest that these "monster" objects may be "lurking everywhere."
Possible, indeed, I thought. But I, for one, was not worried. I had already discovered another black hole – in my own home. It's sitting on the floor beside me as I write this. It's my purse.
A big black shoulder bag, it's big enough to carry my iPad and phone, my glasses and wallet, and even, in a pinch, a small book or a bottle of water without taking on the appearance of luggage.
It has a wide, comfortable strap that slips easily over my shoulder (no Kelly bag for me; I need both hands free) and enough compartments (two interior and one exterior) to, in theory, keep items segregated for speedy retrieval. I like to think it is, if not fashionable, at least not unattractive. It's unobtrusive and efficient, the perfect aid for my somewhat chaotic life. It has, however, one fatal flaw – a black, deep, seemingly endless interior.
My own supermassive black hole swallows everything it encounters. Items placed inside instantly disappear, only reappearing again on some bizarre cosmic timetable that's controlled, I have to assume, by some freakish, unfathomable law of handbag physics.
I will put my phone or my wallet or glasses into this bag and then reach for it a mere 30 seconds later, only to discover it has vanished. For frantic long seconds, I'll search for one or the other of these things, through all of the compartments, then back again, beginning to doubt my own sanity. (Come ON! Have I now entered an alternative universe? Where in the hell is it?!)
All I can ever locate are those items I am NOT looking for: pens, pins, cash-register receipts and gum wrappers, and many of those by touch alone. For, peering inside, all I can see is an endless, lightless void. I kid you not, this bag has the gravitational pull of a dying star.
And so, it occurs to me, as I read about the latest interstellar discovery, that we can find vast behemoths in space, seriously begin planning for a manned mission to Mars, even detect, after years of searching, the Higgs boson or “God particle” – but we cannot design a decent handbag.
Women all over the world carry them. Heck, lots of men carry them as well. Every woman I know has a wardrobe full of them – not, as you might think, because they have been advised by the likes of the DailyWorth website (recent headline: “The Only 10 Handbags You’ll Ever Need”) or because they need 10 purses, but because they, like me, have been trying and failing to find that ONE perfect bag that ticks all the boxes.
I want a purse that will do it all, and because I still hear my mother’s voice in my head repeating the surely-outdated maxim that my shoes should match my handbag, I hedge my bets by carrying a black bag so I’ll be sartorially correct at least some of the time. It’s black, but not so black that it couldn’t pass for dark brown in dim light; large enough to carry those items I can’t seem to do without, but not so large as to induce bursitis. It has a small, easily-accessible exterior section for keys and other small items.
It’s not too casual (nix to fringes or backpack straps), nor too formal (I swear those beautiful, smooth-polished leather bags mark in a high wind); it has no one’s name on it (not who made it, who designed it or, heaven forbid, where I bought it).
A purse should function as the perfect assistant – efficient, silent, effectively invisible. And crucially, I now discover, it should have a light-reflecting interior of white, cream or soft yellow against which its contents can be mercifully revealed.
I used to think I’d bought the perfect purse, before it began to consume my possessions. It didn’t cost thousands of dollars (though there are plenty that do, and for that kind of money, I would want a bag that could answer the phone and collect the mail), but it did cost enough that I force myself to continue using it. I’ve cautioned myself against buying yet another replacement until I can find the perfect one, the one I know MUST be out there, somewhere in the universe.
Surely I will find it, if a real black hole does not get us all first.
Nancy Wehlau lives in Kemptville, Ont.