I never buy the right purse. Each one I buy is either too big or too small, has too many compartments or not enough, or has an opening that either won’t stay open or won’t stay closed. I would function better with a heavyweight paper bag.
The right purse, above all other features, makes accessing items from it effortless.
When a woman is driving down the highway, for example, she likes to withdraw her sunglasses from her purse without taking her eyes off the road.
When making purchases at a store, she wants to retrieve her wallet and the appropriate coupons in one smooth movement.
As she leaves a store and heads for her parked car, she wants to withdraw her keys from her purse without breaking her stride.
I long to be one of these women. I once thought I could become one by buying the right purse. However, experience has proven I am incapable of buying the right purse. I must, therefore, make do with a wrong purse, rightly organized.
To this end, I laid all my purse paraphernalia on my kitchen table, along with a selected wrong purse from my closet. Then I carefully inserted each item into the purse in what I considered an organized manner.
I put my phone in the outside front pocket.
My hand lotion, compact, nail clippers, toothpicks, and chewing gum went into the outside back pocket.
My keys I placed in the inner back compartment, along with tissues, hand sanitizer, lipstick, Chapstick, and wet wipes.
I inserted my wallet, sunglasses, pen, notepad, and calendar in the inner front compartment.
Finally, in the skinny, zippered, middle pouch I put my photos of the grandkids, my coupons, and my emergency twenty dollar bill.
This is good, I thought.
Unknown to me, however, the moment I closed the purse, the items inside began playing a sadistic version of musical chairs. Each item left its assigned location and moved to occupy some other item’s space.
Thus, a few days later as I drove down the highway and reached into my purse for my sunglasses, I pulled out instead a package of gum, followed by a compact, and a packet of tissues.
At the store, other customers waited as I dug through my purse for my wallet. I pushed aside photos, a notebook, a calendar, and my sunglasses before finally retrieving the wallet.
Leaving the store in a rainstorm, I dug unsuccessfully in my purse for my keys all the way to my car. My fingers grasped nail clippers, a tube of lipstick, a bottle of hand lotion, and a packet of toothpicks, but no keys.
When I got to my car, angry and frustrated, I dumped the contents of my purse onto the car’s slippery, wet hood. I sorted out my phone and shoved it inside my bra to protect it from moisture.
I rifled through the scattered metal, plastic, and paper items on the car’s hood until I found my keys. I then stuffed the miserable, soggy contents back into my purse, without regard for front pocket, back pocket, zippered inner pouch, or anything else.
My blood pressure cannot take much more of this. I will, I resolve, be victorious in this fight.
And so, sadly, it has come to this.