Uncommon Curiosity

For as long as I can remember, I have hated carrying a purse.  They’ve always been something that symbolize, to me, things I don’t want to be associated with:  weakness, consumerism, lookism, fashion.  Before having children, I always stuffed a wallet into my backpack or school bag, and avoided the question altogether.  Frustratingly, children arrived with all manner of new accessories that could not be easily carried in my pockets, and holding large backpacks became difficult while carrying babies and their diaper bags, and so I started carrying a “bag” for easy retrieval of nuks and tissues, snacks and toys.   I tried to avoid the p-word in my head by making sure all my “bags” had long straps so I could wear them thrown across my chest, messenger-bag style.  Convinced I had found a loophole in my prejudices, I began freely and openly carrying a “bag,” conveniently ignoring my intellectual discomforts.

Recently, though, while I was with Kyle, he asked me if I had my “purse,” and I was suddenly, acutely aware of how much I hated the idea of carrying one, no matter what I called it.  So I started avoiding the issue altogether by stuffing money and cards into my pockets.  It seemed to be the perfect, albeit awkward, solution for me until I managed to accidentally lose my credit card at the museum this weekend, which made me wonder if the “ball of stuff in my pocket” method was really the best way to carry such important possessions.  (Thankfully it must have been found by someone on staff, because the credit card company said that someone by the name of “De Young” had reported it missing.)

And so, in a fit of bravery and free-thinking, I bought myself a wallet.  A real wallet.  Not a silly thing with beads and sparkles and little poodles.  This is a soft black leather wallet, with room for a few cards and some money.  I stood there in the men’s section at Target, feeling a bit like a fugitive, and not just a little dangerous, comparing styles by slipping them into my back pocket, then my front.  I’d bought wallets a few times before for male friends and not thought twice about it, but buying it for myself made me feel like everyone must be staring, and then I laughed at myself for being so self-conscious.  One benefit of shopping on Black Friday is that no one pays any attention to anyone else unless they’re wearing a big red sale sticker.

I threw the wallet into the basket and continued on to look for detergent and cereal, toilet paper and clothes hangers and all the other wondrously boring things we need on a daily basis, but which I never fail to loathe having to go purchase.  As soon as we had paid for everything, I pulled the wallet out of the bag and slid it out of its box.  I carefully slid my cards and money inside and then pushed it into my pocket – the leather was soft and smooth, and cold to the touch, and the grin on my face was a mile wide.

I’m not sure why, or how, or even when, but at some point someone had convinced me that carrying a purse made me weak.  It made me somehow less capable, less ready – I remember my mom digging through lipsticks and papers, saying, “just a sec – I have to find my keys.”  I remember a hundred times seeing a man embarrassed by having to carry one in a tv show or in a movie or even in real life – even to be seen holding one was a fate worse than death.  I remember thinking – if this is so embarrassing for men, what in the world are they thinking of the women who carry them?  Sure, I could be the better person and face down my prejudices and hold my head high wearing one…I could work out my issues with being seen as feminine and how I associate that with being viewed as weak…I could look up the words “internalized misogyny” and consider how I might have fallen victim…or I could choose, as I did tonight, to let myself off the hook and take the easier road just this once…

It’s really rather beautiful, my wallet.  MY wallet.  Mine.