I can’t tell you how many times I’ve lost a necklace because it got hung on my clothes and broke. Or how often I’ve bent a bobby pin out of shape on my hopelessly stubborn hair. Or enumerate how many pairs of sunglasses my purse has eaten alive and/or held for ransom with disastrous results. Or how many umbrellas have simply, for reasons unknown to man or woman, refused to cooperate, no matter how decadently bribed.

Sunglasses. They hate me. I had a pair this summer—a perfectly good pair, all at once pretty, functional, and comfortable. I was wearing them on my head one day, when something struck me as funny and I had to laugh. When I laugh, I rear my head back like a horse with Turret’s, and in doing so my sunshades slid off and landed with a faint clatter to the carpeted ground. I turn around and saw that they had snapped in two, pretty as you please, right at the bridge. The replacement pair is only an annoyance, as it’s held together by screws that won’t stay tight and the things slide down my nose all the time.

Umbrellas. Demon-possessed things, I tell you. I had one that liked to open of its own accord. Another that grabbed for my hair. Another that sprang deliberate leaks. The one nice one I owned was commandeered by a former roommate. I’ve gone through who-knows-how many umbrellas in the last year, and have yet to find on that hasn’t rebelled. The current one is fine so far, but who knows, it could fly apart the next time I open it.

Thankfully, I’ve had success with hats, scarves, and purses. My only problem with them is that they tend to burst out of my closet when I’m least expecting them.

Then they start begging me to wear them, and I begin to wonder what exactly was in my morning coffee.