My Purse: AKA The ADHD Vortex of Death

My purse isn't a purse.

It's a survival kit.

An archaeological dig.

A small nation with its own ecosystem.

I'm honestly not convinced it obeys the laws of physics anymore.

At this point, I'm pretty sure there's a family of raccoons living in there paying rent.

Nobody in my family trusts my purse.

My husband won't reach into it.

He's seen things.

My daughter refuses to go digging around in there...

...unless she's looking for my credit card.

Funny how courage suddenly appears when Starbucks is involved.

As for me?

I avoid looking inside whenever possible.

Mostly because I'm afraid of what I'll find.

Or what might find me.

People with organized purses amaze me.

You know the ones.

One zipper.

Wallet.

Phone.

Keys.

Done.

Meanwhile, opening my purse is like opening one of those storage units people bid on.

Nobody knows what's inside.

Least of all me.

Let's see what today's excavation reveals.

A receipt from two months ago.

Why?

I don't know.

What did I buy?

Couldn't tell you.

Will I throw it away?

Absolutely not.

What if I need proof that I purchased printer paper on a random Tuesday in April?

You don't know my life.

A hairbrush.

Hand sanitizer.

Mints.

Asthma inhaler.

Lip balm.

Lip gloss.

Another lip balm.

A lip balm I thought I'd lost.

Backup hair ties.

Backup backup hair ties.

A hair tie that has somehow fused itself to three pens and a cough drop.

Science can't explain it.

My wallet deserves its own chapter.

Inside are approximately seven store loyalty cards for places I haven't visited since 2019.

A gift card with somewhere between 14 cents and $83 on it.

I refuse to check.

It's more exciting this way.

A driver's license photo that looks like I was being held hostage.

And enough business cards to network with the entire Eastern Seaboard.

Am I attending networking events?

No.

But if one suddenly breaks out in the cereal aisle...

I'm ready.

Then we have...

The Mystery Pocket.

Every purse has one.

You unzip it expecting a couple of coins.

Instead...

Three bobby pins.

A safety pin.

A cough drop with no wrapper.

Two earrings.

Neither of which belong to the same pair.

A tiny screw.

Where did it come from?

Should I be concerned?

Has something in my house slowly been falling apart for six months?

We'll never know.

There are also...

Pens.

So many pens.

Some work.

Some don't.

One has exploded.

One belongs to a bank I've never used.

One is mysteriously sticky.

I don't ask questions anymore.

Then there are the wrappers.

I have no explanation for the wrappers.

Apparently I consume snacks by removing the wrapper...

...placing the wrapper back into my purse...

...and convincing myself this is somehow a temporary arrangement.

Narrator:

It was not temporary.

Here's my favorite discovery.

Pads.

Several of them.

Which would be incredibly thoughtful...

If I weren't in menopause.

I haven't actually needed them in years.

Yet there they sit.

Faithfully waiting.

Optimistic little overachievers.

I don't have the heart to remove them.

They've been through so much together.

The most fascinating thing about my purse is this:

The less I need something...

The morelikely I am to find it.

Need a random receipt from 2023?

Boom.

Need a punch card for a frozen yogurt shop that closed during the pandemic?

Got it.

Need three different shades of lip gloss?

Take your pick.

Need my keys?

...

Hold, please.

I once spent ten minutes digging through my purse looking for my phone.

You know where it was?

My hand.

I WAS HOLDING IT.

In fairness...

The purse and I were both embarrassed.

I've often wondered what would happen if someone else cleaned it out.

I imagine there would be questions.

"Why do you have twelve pens?"

"Excellent question."

"Why is there a tape measure?"

"I wish I knew."

"Why is there a dog treat?"

"...I don't even have the dog with me."

Some mysteries aren't meant to be solved.

Honestly...

If I were ever stranded on a deserted island and could only bring one thing...

Forget a survival knife.

Forget matches.

Forget a satellite phone.

I'm bringing my purse.

Because I'm reasonably confident it already contains:

Water purification tablets.

A granola bar from 2022.

Dental floss.

Bandages.

A tiny flashlight.

Three dollars in loose change.

An expired coupon.

And somehow...

A single Lego.

I don't have any idea where the Lego came from.

But I trust that, when the time comes...

It'll reveal its purpose.

Eventually.

Probably.

Maybe.

I'll just have to find it first.