It's in My Purse

My Purse: Enter at Your Own Risk.

Few words strike fear into a man like hearing a woman say “It’s in my purse”, when they ask a simple question like “Where’s the stamps”.  They wonder if what they need is worth the danger or the wrath of messing with a women’s purse.  It’s often not.  But if an urgent need arises, most men choose between two purse entry approaches:  “The Jaws” – complete with shark attack soundtrack playing in their head as they gingerly peer inside, anticipating something horrible lurking in the murky depths.  Or… the “Indiana Jones” – agilely jumping obstacles and swinging out of there with the stamps before the whole thing blows.

Purses are a symbol of womanhood, often bestowed on us at a young age to haul polly pockets and assorted lip glosses.  My nine-year-old daughter has probably a dozen purses and first realized the hassle of hauling one around with a panicked, tear-streaked revelation that she left her “favorite” purse, full of Barbie clothes and an empty gift card, hanging in the ladies restroom at Gander Mountain.

Our purses are a testament to our preparedness.  They are the grown up girl scout way to succeed in life.  

“Buy new purses, but keep thee old.  One is purple and the other has gold…embellishments.”  

When on a scene, we may not have the brute strength, mechanical know-how, or solid right hook of our male companions, but with our purse, we are part hero, part MacGyver, and part Muhammad Ali.  Ibuprophen, Tums, floss, nail clipper, tampon, hair-tie, Kleenex, we’ve got it.  And all together, a semi-aimed swing of that 12 pound bag could take out most bad guys.

For me a purse became a necessity when I was in high school and learned to drive.  It was impossible to fit my house and car keys in my pocket when they were tethered together by half a dozen awesome and completely necessary key chains.   The college days sported a bag with rolls of film, male genitalia shaped straws from parties,  the frequent patient card from the local plasma donation center or a bar coaster that just had to be kept from a memorable night nestled in next to my clunky “free with contract” Nokia phone.

By the time you have kids, most of that stuff has worked its way out of your bag.  Heaven forbid little Timmy pulls a penis shaped straw out of your bag and starts chewing on it during his two-year well-child doctor appointment!  But, being a mom makes you a literal bag lady.  Your biceps are never better than the years you’re hauling a diaper bag, purse and baby in a car seat. 

As the need for the diaper bag fades, the size of your purse grows.  Part pantry, part emergency baby kit, you need room for the pacifier (and backup pacifier), toys, teethers, fruit snacks, fish crackers, freeze dried yogurt and those stinky baby cereal puffs, not to mention an emergency diaper and wipes.  At this stage it’s a toss-up to what weighs more, the bag or your baby.

The baby days are behind me now, but the contents of my purse are still a sight to behold, mostly garbage, crayons and hot wheels, very little actual money.  My current purse is falling apart, that’s what inspired this blog.  I’ve actually purchased a new bag, but I haven’t worked up the courage to make the switch yet.  After three years of the same bag, I’m afraid of what I may find!

From the top it looks okay.  A few dozen receipts and wads of the coupons that printed with them float at the top, a stack of junk mail lines both sides, and there’s a little pocket that safely corrals my business cards and my cell phone.  The rest is a bit like the Little Mermaid’s cave of treasures:  

“I’ve got lipgloss and tic tacs a plenty, I’ve got whozits and whatzits galore. 
You want packs of gum? I’ve got twenty… but who cares, no big deal, it holds more!”

The mid-level is where my wallets, personal and business, settle.  But the real trouble is in the seedy underbelly.  I made the mistake of tossing a button from our local fair in my purse last summer.  Somehow the sharp end got loose from its holder and the button, now armed and dangerous, attacks without warning whenever I venture past my wallets.  He hides out down there with the other unsavory characters and I worry he’s training a tiny army of forgotten tic tacs, hardened fruit snacks, restaurant mints and naked pieces of gum that have escaped their little silver straight jackets.

I’m pretty sure they are planning a takeover of the upper 2/3rds. I think I can see tiny bunkers made out of cough drop and drinking straw wrappers. Once the wallets cave, the receipts and junk mail don’t stand a chance – it’s time to pull out!  That’s how I knew it was time to for a new purse.  It’s time for me to man up and make the switch… I’ll leave the army and their evil button leader behind, but my new bag will still have room for the important stuff - hot wheels, crayons and the two dozen pens that I’ll never find when I need them.