The Confusing Past of Handbags

Beloved cleaned out under the bed this week and pulled out my seething mass of forgotten purses. I will go ahead and admit that some of them date back to college. And still have stuff in them from college. Like my gold University of Iowa card with my Social Security number printed on it, because we totally all used to use our Social Security numbers as our student IDs and driver's license numbers, back when the world was new. There was my Mike's Liquors video store card (I know, I know). He inexplicably found his University of Northern Iowa student ID in one of my purses, too. I can't explain that, don't remember him giving it to me -- did I steal it? It IS a hot picture. 

This morning I stared at the pile in the corner of the bedroom, not wanting it to be there any more. I am firmly anti-pile, especially in my zen space. I ended up opening all the pockets, pouring $35 or so in change into the little angel's piggy bank and throwing away more than half of them. Why I still have them is a mystery -- they're out of style and beat up and full of leaking ballpoint pens and the sticky foulness that is the bottom of a fifteen-year-old purse. It was freeing to dump them in the garbage. In doing so, I realized how much I've changed and not changed and how little I really remember of the girl who carried and in some cases wore those purses through Iowa City and on spring break and to Chicago and Kansas City and all the places in between. The only thing that seems real is the now.

Right now I have one large red handbag that I carry almost every day, regardless of fashion or weather or my outfit. It contains smaller bags with working pens and oral pain medicine for when the little angel's teeth hurt and my business cards and wallet and lip gloss. It's the me of now, thank God.