#95 - The Man-Purse

The Man-Purse

9/7/06 (#95)

At the cusp of 40, the vanity of my youth has faded---my jeans no longer need to be Levi's (though they are, because I haven't purchased new blue jeans in years), my khakis don't need to be Gap (I got my last pair on clearance at Target for $4.34, though they look like I paid twice that), and my shoes are selected purely for comfort. (Actually, my shoes are usually selected by my wife, who has much more patience for shoe shopping than I do, and who has found me, consecutively, the three most comfortable pairs of shoes I have ever owned. Left to my own devices, I'd have gotten them at Target for $4.34, just like I did before my wife's shoe intervention.)

Thus, I was nothing but amused when I showed up at work and one of my co-workers exclaimed, "You've got a man purse!" After all, he was right. Had I arrived with a backpack or a stylish messenger bag I would have escaped comment---even notice---but my tote lacks the size of both of those bags. It's much more like...well, a purse. (In fact, it's much smaller than either of my late grandmother's purses, which could have easily been used for shoplifting cantaloupes or smuggling infants.) I prefer to call is a bag, but as Shakespeare said, "A rose by any other name..."

There's an adage among purse carriers that you tend to pack as much stowage as the purse will allow, which explains why many women can shame even McGyver when it comes to problem solving: if an unexpected dilemma can only be solved with a needle and thread, a saltine cracker, two Canadian quarters and a pen with green ink (I have no idea what issue these items would resolve, but then, I don't think you can stop nuclear fallout with a candy bar, and McGyver managed that), just look for the woman with the largest purse. You might even have your choice of Bic or Pentel pens.

I was exactly that type of packer when I carried a messenger bag---items were regularly added to the inventory, but nothing was ever removed. Scotch tape? Had it. Sore throat? Two types of lozenges. Stuck with an unexpected delay? Voila, a book of Barbara Kingsolver's essays. Tissues, Swiss Army knife, protractor, French-English dictionary, recipe for margaritas, a deck of cards, extra silverware, spare clarinet reeds, 4x6 picture frames, a bottle of ketchup? I'm sure I had them all in there, and I don't even play clarinet. The damn thing weighed about 22 lbs, and would barely fit into the overhead bin of a DC-10. I justified this portable department store as "being prepared", but over the course of a year, the only items I ever used were the knife and the lozenges. I was packed for anything possible, yet lived a life that stayed well within the confines of probable.

So I first switched to a smaller shoulder bag. Sure, I felt a bit naked traveling to the coffee shop without my unabridged thesaurus, baseball glove, folding backgammon case and matched set of 16 oz coffee mugs, but I had committed myself to minimalism. I proudly showed off my pared down portable to my wife, who inspected the contents and asked when I had last used the full-size paper cutter, and why I needed the mortar and pestle. (I had no answer, except to say that I wouldn't have put it in there if there hadn't once been a legitimate need. Ditto on the lawn dart set.)

So I scaled back again---gone were the road flares, the assortment of jams, and the propane camp lantern; I would learn to live without the down comforter and the road atlas of the western hemisphere. I had finally pared it back to the bare essentials, and by coincidence, received a new bag for Christmas that would contain these items and nothing else, a bag barely the size of...well, a purse. But it was more than just the right size---it was filled with slots and pockets and zippered compartments, an organizational euphoria for someone like me, one of those nuts who gets visibly excited when circumstances require a trip to either Staples or Storables. (The only thing better than having a clever, convenient storage container for each of my items is to have a clever, convenient storage item for all of my clever, convenient storage items. It would qualify as a secret shame if I made any attempt to keep it a secret, or if I felt any shame.)

Now the contents of my bag are purely essential: a small pad and a set of crayons in case my daughter and I need to pass time while waiting for the scrambled eggs to arrive; my PDA and folding keyboard; three pens (though none with green ink), and of course, my swiss army knife and some lozenges. It's a clear case of function over form, and I'm secure enough in my masculinity (or oblivious enough to it) that I can fling my little bag over my shoulder and go wherever I need to go. And as a coworker said in my defense after the initial "man-purse" comment, "At least it's not a fanny pack." (I have friends who once used, and probably still use their fanny packs, and while I love those people, I admit to emphatic agreement with that defense.)

Of course, you know what's going to happen now---I'll be out in the far reaches of Northeast Portland and a diabetic Frenchman who barely speaks English will approach me with his broken clarinet and an incomplete map of Montana, struggling to explain that he needs something to raise his blood sugar so he can get to a part of Montana that isn't on his map and perform a concert, assuming he can find new reeds for his clarinet.

And all I'm going to be able to say is, "lozenge?"

©2006 wpreagan