At least once a week I get in my car and dump the contents of my purse on the floor of the passenger seat of my car. Do I have my cell? My car keys? A pen? My checkbook? Grocery list? Lipstick, powder and maybe even an eyeliner or two? My purse is a bottomless pit, and I’m just waiting to pull out a lamp or an umbrella and fly over the roof of my house like Mary Poppins. If you don’t know me yet, I’m the one who carries my past, present and future in my purse.
I don’t know how long I’ve been at this thing, but at least once a week I promise to get organized, clean out my purse and never ever buy a purse bigger than a sandwich bag. But of course I haven’t — at least not yet.
It’s true that my purses are like black holes but ask me for something out of the ordinary and most likely it’s in there somewhere. I know these bags are hurting my neck and shoulders, and I could really live without all the stuff I carry around. But frankly, I don’t really want to. I find it rather amusing that my husband won’t put his hand in my bag to look for anything (he says my bags scare him). And for years I have listened to people grunt and groan when they try to lift my purse. Sorry folks, but it’s my bag, and I like it a lot.
Will I one day purchase a small (not tiny) purse and commit to using it for more than a day? Or will I just continue to fantasize about getting organized and only carrying the things I really need? I’m fairly sure it’s the latter.
Yes, I am often envious when I see a guy remove a small wallet and the keys to his car from his pocket, but he’s also the guy that asks if anyone has a couple of Advil, a tissue, a pen or a scrap of paper? And guess what? I do.