It has been said with some veracity that eyes are the window to a man's soul. The contents of a woman's purse, I'd argue, are the window to hers. For posterity and for all you amateur psychological profilers out there, here are mine:
What passes for my purse is a brown jute messenger bag with a shoulder strap and a velcro flap. I can't dirty it, and I can't destroy it. For me that's perfect. It was made by a woman in India trying to keep herself out of the sex trade.
Attached by a purple carabiner are my keys, keys that open my apartment, the dark, dingy community laundry room, a filing cabinet that contains nothing of value, a Kryptonite bike lock, a wheel-less 60-pound black banner case named Bertha, and the office floor directly above the campaign headquarters of Senator John "Maverick" McCain.
Inside: five bungee cords, assorted lengths and colors; a dark blue DC Urban League T-shirt, size XL, obtained during my stint on the IJM softball team; two pink and grey women's kayaking shoes, size 8; 1 pair of grey running shorts that say "HOOS" across the seat; a Christian historical romance of questionable literary merit; a James Joyce novel of impenetrable literary merit; an LG flip phone with many cool features that I lack the mental capacity to use, most recent text message a request for Raquel to ask Josh if he knows any solid, Christian, Spanish-speaking attorneys with criminal litigation experience; eight $1 bills, decidedly wrinkled and dirty, obtained as change on my last visit to the Columbia Pike Farmers' Market; a Swiss army knife; a class syllabus for Literature of Science, scrawled with illustrations of flowers, butterflies, and shooting stars, plus the words "anthocyanin," "epilepsy," and "boring," and the epigram, "Dare to be wrong;" class notes for Literature of Science, written on the back of a diagram of the Nicollet Ballroom at the Hyatt Regency Minneapolis; receipts for food purchased at airports in Washington, DC and Minneapolis-St.Paul; a bank card; a credit card that gets me free outdoor adventure gear; a credit card that gets me free flights to California; a card that gets me into my gym; two cards that get me grocery discounts; a work ID that shows me with black, short hair; a passport with me sporting long, blonde hair, and stamps from Nicaragua, Frankfurt, Athens, Florence, Corfu, and the seaside city of Sarande, Albania; a compact mirror; a journal; a pencil case containing nothing that writes; a calculator; a ticket stub for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull; an address book featuring a hair salon, a dentist, a college friend in Durham, and my sister and brother-in-law, addresses that I want to know but can't seem to memorize.
All Clear! - Of all the memories, experiences and things I brought back from Uganda, I have managed not to bring Malaria with me. I was so happy I had to share it with ...
9 years ago