How I Survived a Woman's Worst Disaster

     The worst disaster in womanhood befell me. My purse wore out and I couldn’t find a replacement. That’s the-end-of-life-as-we-know-it for women, because we depend on a well-organized handbag as the repository for all we need to make it through the day.     
     For years, I’ve relied on fanny packs, one after another, slung over my shoulder to hold everything I needed to survive. But when I visited my usual vendor to replace my bag, the clerk informed me: “We don’t carry those anymore.” At another store I found only one model, but it was the size of a cooler. I drove home and consulted with my style-savvy daughter. “Fanny packs? The world has moved on, Mom,” she said.     
     Nobody warned me.     
​     My life with handbags has always been checkered. As a young tomboy, I couldn’t imagine why I’d want to carry a frilly box. Finally when I was 10, my mother decided it was “time” and forced me to tote a pink atrocity to school. All the way there, I swung it around my head. The thing didn’t survive.    
     Somewhere along the way, I fell in step with the rest of girlhood and selected my own tote. But never one of those little clutch bags like the Queen of England rests on her arm; that’s not me. I owned a cavernous basket-weave when I was single. When a date arrived to pick me up, it wouldn’t fit in the front seat of his VW Beetle. That relationship didn’t last. Through the years, whatever bag I carried, it carried my purse-onality, as comedian Anita Renfroe says.      
     With my recent purse crisis, my style-savvy daughter knew of a brand that fits my quirks, so I snagged one the next day. I organized everything into all the little pockets and exhaled that my life could go on.     
​     You see, I can’t organize or control the world around me, but now at least I can find my lipgloss.