I need a purse. Every few years I realize this, usually after adding some new piece of technology to my pocket arsenal; a new cell phone, beeper, or GPS device. Or when my wallet becomes over-stuffed with business cards, family photos, receipts and, well, pretty much everything but money. Money seems to be the one thing that doesn’t proliferate in there, for some reason.
Anyway, every so often I notice my pants weigh more than I do, thanks to all the crap jammed in the pockets. In addition to the wallet and tech stuff, I usually carry a pocket knife, my car keys, my house keys, eight bucks in change, a couple guitar picks and my “lucky” Petoskey stone from an up North vacation ten years ago.
I look like a smuggler trying to sneak grapefruit through an airport customs check. I don’t walk, I waddle. If I break into a run, I sound like a mariachi band falling down an escalator.
So I need a purse.
Sweet Annie carries a purse; sometimes a small one, sometimes a large one, sometimes (though I will never understand why) two purses at once. Sometimes she puts the small purse in the big purse and carries that. She assures me there is a “science” to this, but if so, it’s one no man can begin to comprehend.
The point is, unlike me, she never looks lumpy. Part of this is because, again, unlike me, she is not naturally lumpy. But mostly, it’s that purse.
Annie can wear skinny jeans, form-fitting gowns, bicycle shorts or — should she choose to — Spandex pedal-pushers, and through it all she looks great. Sleek, smooth and lump-free. Annie does not jingle when she walks. Her pants do not fall prey to gravity’s inexorable grasp. She can go up a flight of stairs without stopping midway to tighten her belt.
All because of that purse.
Well, then, you may ask, why don’t you stop whining like a little girl and just GET a purse already?
Two reasons: One, I am a man. Two, I am an American man.
American men do not carry purses.
Oh, sure, every ten years or so, some fashion designer will decide there should be purses for men. Pierre Flippadoccio (or somebody with a similar name) will come up with a man-purse made from distressed leather, heavily-studded, with sharp angles, manly clasps and big pockets for manly things like knives, cell phones and lucky Petoskey stones.
Then some poor, misguided schmuck (let’s call him Kevin, since that’s the name of the guy my last wife ran off with) will actually go out and drop fifty bucks on one, put all his stuff in it, and then make the terrible, terrible mistake of leaving the house.
Eventually, one of Kevin’s friends will spot him sashaying around town with his man-purse. This friend will not tell anyone, however, because he will have died laughing before getting the chance.
But word will get out. Oh, yes.
“Dude! Did you hear? Kevin’s — get this — carrying a PURSE!”
“What? No way, dude!”
“Yes way!”
A surreptitious photo will be captured, maybe video, and will be posted to Facebook and YouTube. At this point, Kevin may as well put his manhood in a Mason jar and bury it quietly in a shady spot down by the stream. Life, as he knows it, is over.
So, despite the fact I could really use a purse, I will never carry one.
I’m just glad Annie does. When we go out, she lets me put my wallet, car keys, pocket knife and lucky Petoskey stone in HER purse.
Hmm … maybe there’s a reason she sometimes carries two.
mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com
(616) 548-8273
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