My sister gave me a clutch for my birthday because I don’t do purses or wallets and she was sick of me asking her to hold my necessaries like license, debit card, lip balm and tissues, sometimes I like to bring a hat to maybe wear and always a book. She’s a mom and happens to have a gigantic purse with plenty of room for me. It’s a symbiotic relationship. I don’t travel light and it’s nice to have a human with me to hold all of my things. That’s why I was very excited back when they started making fanny packs for men, but nothing came of it. Call it a failure in my powers of persuasion. You try convincing a man that fanny packs are hot.
The clutch is my favorite color and it dangles off my wrist so my hands are free to wave and communicate when drivers nearly bump us in parking lots. I’m cleaning up my language here, but there are loopholes.
Are you giving them the finger?
The clutch isn’t big enough to hold a book, if it were it’d be a purse and I hate purses so books don’t come with me on errands anymore. The end of an era. Tata. That’s fine. The habit was out of control anyway. I’ve never read a book in the grocery store yet I used to bring one, sometimes two, in my boyfriend’s bag. Why? It takes at least six hours to read a book. I try to be in and out of grocery stores in about six minutes no matter how many things don’t get crossed off the list. An up-and-down-every-aisle trip would probably destroy me. Gotta go.
The books were mostly for subway reading or the-person-I’m-meeting-is-late-and-I’m-uncomfortable-in-public reading. Regardless I don’t ride the subway anymore, I ride my bike. Nobody reads and rides a bike. Some people can ride bikes and when their hair gets in their face they can take a hand off the handle bars and brush the hair away. Not I. This lady must stop all forward motion, disembark from the seat and then tuck the rogue hair into helmet while cursing it. Live the life you deserve, hair.
My sisters and I lead very different lives. I’m cursing my own hair while they’re running businesses and raising children. I admire and envy them, and somehow give them the worst gifts. There was the year of the spiralizer. Everyone I love got a spiralizer for Christmas because I couldn’t sleep and informercials came on and by the third hour I was convinced we’d all be living it up on zucchini noodles. What made the spiralizer year sad wasn’t only that they all broke right away, but that it came in a box the size and shape and weight of something good, like a toy from the Fun Box Monster Emporium in Portland, Maine (luv this place). They were all so excited, tore off the dollar store paper at the same time and then they got spiralizers.
This year my sister gave me a clutch that I use all the time when she’s not around. I would like to find her something as thoughtful and handy. If it’s just that thought that counts I’m good to go. The problem is I keep going back to bloody toes and fingers in this one Etsy shop I want to be best friends forever with, DeadGoatCompany. Does she need them? No. They also have severed ears and ripped out eyeballs. You get to choose gore and rot level! Ew. Just a little bit for her, thanks. I put them in a cart with her address just to see how it’d all look in the cart and it looks right. The heart wants what the heart wants. She’ll get her package of severed body parts and call to tell me I’m her sinking ship on this sea of shitake and I’ll finally forgive myself for the spiralizers and say That’s what sisters are for.