Capital One asks that all the time and it’s none of their damn business. But, what the heck, I’ll tell you — an insurance card, library and debit cards, eight dollars, my driver’s license, and a Bazooka comic — with a fortune that says I’m destined for the Olympic swimming team.
Except for Bazooka Joe, I only pack the essentials. No pictures, no coins, no plastic. That’s because it’s not a real honest-to-goodness wallet, not in the traditional sense. It’s an old ID case from college, nice and compact. I kept leaving my grown-up wallet on shelves in bookstores or in shopping carts. That doesn’t happen with my ID case, it’s small enough to stuff in a pocket.
I don’t carry a purse, either. I did once upon a time, but not for years. With a purse, I felt burdened, beholden to a load of junk I had no real use for. Dried out chapstick, vintage ketchup packets, a beat up paperback, dog leash, calculator, safety pins, a can of Coke, hand lotion, penlight, broken aspirin, Snickers bar.
That wasn’t a purse, it was a mini-mart. As a result, one shoulder is lower than the other and my clothes hang funny. Not funny, ha ha, but funny, what the Hell?
Truth be known, I’m a shade compulsive, a fan of order and neatness. I’m also lazy. The combination is not harmonious. By its nature, a purse is portable chaos. Peering into that dark, jumbled pandemonium made my teeth itch. But trying to restore and maintain order was just too daunting. My pocketbook was out of control, in total anarchy. I had to give it up or go crazy. I did a little of both (does that make me an overachiever?).
These days, when I need more than an ID case, I resort to a backpack. With the abundance of compartments and pockets and secret hideaways, order breaks out all over the place. This goes here, that goes there, zip, snap, done. A place for everything and everything in it’s place and all that.
Ain’t life grand?
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