I once got lost in a Grand Union supermarket when I was about four. Separated from my mother, I wandered around below the giant women on line at the checkout looking for the blonde in soft, brown suede. Finally I found my mom’s worn, caramel-colored jacket with my hand as she stood behind her cart, her purse hanging open on her arm. I reached up to pull a tissue out of her purse to dry my lost-child eyes, and stopped in alarm when I realized it was not the inside of my mother’s purse. It was some strange, alien handbag with rough crumpled papers where the soft Kleenex should be, and the alien eyes that looked down at me like I was a dirty street urchin ignited my tears anew. Suddenly, there were warm suede arms around me and a familiar voice cooing, “There you are, sweetie!” and the delicious fragrance of peppermint gum as the tissue dabbed at my runny nose. What a wicked purse that wrong woman had.
At the risk of making a vast generalization about all women, we ARE the inside of our bags. Like fingerprints and snowflakes, no two are exactly alike. Similar to dental records, a forensic examiner could probably use the contents to identify us by our psyches. Certainly what we carry around on a daily basis provides obvious clues to even the casual observer as to what we value for both survival and first impressions. Beginning with the bizarre early advice our mothers gave to always wear clean underwear when you leave the house because you never know what might happen, women grow up with an internally devised plan of action as to what to carry “just in case.” Personal experience and personal neurosis play a role in whether that satchel hanging from your arm carries pepper spray or perfume, Fritos or a protein bar. Thinking about what I will need for the coming day morphs into what will I need if I can’t get home for a week? This is how Ritz Bits find their way next to extra socks, Advil, and a ballpoint pen. If I’m cold, hungry, headachy, and can’t write about it when my car gets stranded on a dark, winding road, I’m a worthless blogger.
The things that lurk in the bottom of our well-choreographed purses unite us as friends and fellow warriors. Rummaging through our bags while having pizza together, my friend Caryn and I laid a total of 8 lip glosses on the table. We cracked up when we saw them there all lined up like soldiers at attention waiting to be called into action. “Do we have enough lip products, you think?” I asked her. “Not really,” she said, “I left the medicated one home.”
Yesterday I went into the city on a volunteer event for New York Cares serving the midday meal at a senior center in midtown. Not knowing if there would be a place to stash my purse, I pared down to the minimum of necessities to fit in a small crossover bag that would fit under my plastic apron. In it were a credit card, a metro card, my cell phone, some cash, my keys, dental floss, a packet of Advil, and one lipstick. At the end of the day, I met Daughter for sushi down in her neighborhood. As soon as she sat down, she said, “Can I have a Band-Aid please? I got a wicked paper cut at work.” I held up my little-bitty bag to her stunned eyes. “Oh my God,” she said in disbelief. “Where’s all your stuff? I’ve never seen you leave the house without a bale of dental floss.” I dumped the contents out and picked up the mint-flavored Glide. “Let’s not get crazy,” I said.
Daughter’s Fotos profile Dave Kinsey at Joshua Liner Gallery
woman in repose
beast of burden
becoming fiction
the scream