The Man Purse

Near the end of our recent beach vacation, after multiple rounds of schlepping multiple persons and their accoutrements from the condo to the beach to the condo to the pool to the condo to downtown to the condo back to the beach, my husband looked at his pockets, stuffed with wallet, keys, a plastic shovel, two pacifiers, a paperback book, a bottle of water, and a half-eaten turkey sandwich, and said, “You know what I need?”
 
"A vacation?"

“No. A purse.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” I told him. “With a purse comes responsibility. And scoliosis.”

It didn’t cross my mind again until a week later, when he’d set off alone with our two boys on a cross-country road trip to see his family. My mother-in-law called me with the breaking news.

“He bought a man purse,” she said. “He carries it everywhere. He’s very pleased with it.”

I suppose some women would be horrified, but I was thrilled. His man purse meant fewer things for me to carry, and better still, he would finally get to see how the other half lives. Really, you understand nothing of what it means to be a woman until you can drive a car while climbing head first into the bottom of your purse to retrieve a bleating cell phone.

“So you heard about my man purse?” he said.

“I did. Congratulations! How do you feel?”

“It feels good. I spent a little more than I should, but it’s exactly what I needed.”
 
“What style is it?  Let me see.”

“It’s a messenger bag, really. I got it in the men’s section. But don’t tell the boys. They’re telling every stranger we meet that their dad carries a ‘man purse.’”

“And this pleases you?”

“Hell yeah. What fun is having a messenger bag? I’ve got a MAN PURSE!”

“You’re not a messenger, after all,” I said. “You’re a MAN!”

“That’s right,” he said. “No shame!”

“Yeah, grrrrrr!”

“I’m the MAN!”

“Here, honey. Put this in your purse.”