For fifty years, the perfect purse has eluded me. Ideally, I need a small clutch that I can’t clutter. It should be just large enough to hold a wallet, lipstick, phone and keys. However, when I shop for this special purse, I will leave the store with the mother of all purses, with four sections, six pockets and fifteen sipper sections, every single time.
At the grocery store, the clerk can fill fourteen bags before I can find my debit card in that purse. I swore I put it in the credit card zippered area. It wasn’t in the business card section either; nor the make-up pocket. It wasn’t in my coupon pocket or my gum and candy section. My make-up section was peppered with mints and hair bands, but no debit card. I almost emptied the entire contents of my new purse onto the cashier’s belt, when my phone rang. When I picked it up, my credit card was sticking out of the almost hidden back pocket of the miscellaneous section, along with the phone.
I have developed a severe allergy to my new, soft, brown, leather purse. It scares me. I can actually get lost in there. On a good note, I have improved my fine motor skills with all of the zipping and unzipping. I am concerned that my thumb and forefinger might actually go numb from over use. My language is also a concern. I have little patience and no memory. It’s a daily battle to find a thing in my beautiful, stylish, brown leather, monster.
Each New Year’s Resolution involves organization. I vow to slow down, get organized and simplify my life. It’s a simple feat according to the experts. It is not a simple feat for me. Each new purse brings the possibility of organization, sanity and contentment. By February, none of these have occurred. Instead, I become my old self, searching like a rabid retriever every time I open that leather creature,
I am like a camel that needs to carry everything possible just in case I get stuck in a desert, a traffic jam, or just get hungry. There are enough tiny cherry drops in there to feed a kindergarten class. There must be forty of them sprinkled on the bottom of the middle section. The case broke open when it hit my new lip gloss case. This is what happens when I mix up lip gloss and candy sections. Eventually I come across things I’d forgotten about, like an award winning recipe for pot roast. Concentration is required with these big bags. They should be banned for all women over fifty.
I was searching for my reading glasses when I found a parking ticket from last June. That was in the eye wear section of my purse. I filed it there to remind me to see and pay the ticket. I missed it, naturally, because I can’t find my reading glasses. They deserve their own pocket.
This year, I may resolve to stop carrying a purse completely. But where would I carry my fifteen pounds of daily necessary items? I’d need a wagon to drag around town.
Maybe I need man bag.