Bottom fishing in a handbag

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My life is at the bottom of a purse. No seriously. I’ve become a hunchback, hauling around everything I own in a cavernous handbag that could easily qualify as a storage unit.

Everyone knows that women carry around the weight of the world – on their shoulders, in a bag – Louis Vuitton if they’re lucky. My latest model was designed by Sam Walton and it has become the bane of my existence. It is a rather playful receptacle – one which initiates a game of hide and seek with me each day and I’m always “it.”

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The blasted handbag has become a back hole which gobbles up everything important and regurgitates only things I have no use for. I think I am slowly going mad as I search without success for my camera which hasn’t been seen in two months since I last dropped it in the bag. The only reason I know it’s still in there is that the flash goes off periodically lighting up the bag like a firefly.

My cell phone barks (yes, my signature ring is a dog bark) and I begin “The Big Dig.” I pull out a half eaten sandwich, a dead battery, and a makeup bag with a broken zipper which means lipstick and powder is strewn about creating a colorful interior. I pull out a wad of coupons which have all expired, an appointment calendar from 2010, and an open pack of breath mints coated in something that looks like tobacco particles but I don’t smoke!

My fishing expedition yields up no phone as the dog barks angrily and passers-by look at me like I’m guilty of animal abuse. I pull out an extension cord wrapped around ticket stubs from Pirates of the Caribbean and a small casket which holds the body of a dead spider I hope to identify someday.

No matter how large or small, no matter how many or how few pockets, I will inevitably lose everything in my purse sooner or later. I will swear I hear my keys in there, and then swear they’re not in there, only to find them when I unceremoniously dump the bag’s contents onto the parking lot beside my car. My favorite lipstick rolls underneath the mammoth tires of a man-sized pick up truck and I’m not brave enough to crawl under the truck to retrieve it.

My reading glasses are especially fond of sifting to the bottom of the bag unless they’re in my hand or on my head. By the time I locate them, one lens has fallen out under the weight of all that detritus. I read that a scattered handbag reflects a scattered brain. I’m more inclined to believe it’s a sign of senility. Haven’t you noticed, the older the woman, the larger the bag?

Today, I’m off to shop for a small bag which will hold nothing more than my phone, some folding money, a credit card, my driver’s license, and a lipstick. I’ll feel year’s younger and never again be intimidated and tortured by a handbag.

2 thoughts on “Bottom fishing in a handbag

  1. I laughed so hard I started crying. My hand bag is not big but I still
    can never reach in there and find what I am looking for. I guess it is
    an older woman thing. Love your blog

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