One of the tiny treats I'd like to have for myself as a woman is a small purse.
Just some sort of little handbag that draws comments like, "Ooooh, that's so cute! Where did you get that?" from other women.
Sadly, this is an impossibility. I have finally admitted it to myself.
About two weeks ago, I got a great deal on an Etienne Aigner purse at a Boscov's closeout sale. It's adorable: Purple with white piping, just the sort of purse I would never have carried in high school because it was too girly.
And then I tried to stuff a new, teeny pink wallet; my ring of 6 keys; three ponytail holders; a small bottle of Pepto-Bismol; a small bottle of Advil; my work ID card on a lanyard; my fold-up brush with a mirror on the handle; my cell phone; my checkbook; dental floss; a pocketbook-size calendar; two pens (because without fail one won't write when I need it to); a Tide stain stick; Chap Stick; lip gloss; a book of stamps; and a compact into it.
I also had two plastic dinosaurs, a multifaceted baby rattle, and a list of piano teachers and dance classes that I can't afford to sign Sam up for that made an appearance at one time or another in those two weeks.
So today, I returned to a bag -- it's not anything you could call a purse, really. But it has a bigger wallet, and it holds all my crap.
Just one more sign that, for the next 18 years at a minimum, I will be a mommy first and a woman second.
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