If a Disaster Forces Us to Evacuate to the High School Gym, You'll Want to Sit Next To Me
After adjusting the straps, I pull my newest purse over my head and position it in the cross body position. My right hand strokes the bag; it is effortless to reach cellphone, keys, or dog treats.
Like a runway model, I slouch and check myself in the full-length mirror. With satisfaction similar to a Tinder match, I announce to my image, "This is the one."
I am fondling my just arrived Baggallini Everywhere Crossbody handbag, smitten with the several outside pockets, zippered pouches, sleeves for water bottle and sunglasses, and an interior with slots for credit cards. With this assortment of holders, I have all of my valuables hugged to my hip.
If you know me, though, the pronouncement of "the one" is laughable, and shelves squashed with backpacks, tote bags, and shoulder bags bear witness to my addiction. I can almost hear every fashion accessory nudge one another, and whisper, "I give it a week."
I can't blame the abandoned bags for their disappointment in my switches. I love backpacks, for their great storage space and the image incurred of a cool elder. But alas, when time came to answer a phone or reward a dog treat, I'd have to lower the left strap and then fiddle with finding the desired object. And because of some flaw, every other new bag faced similar rejection.
Two major questions hover over this perpetual quest for the perfect bag: why do I need to take several pounds of stuff with me, and second, from whence in my life comes the insecurity that forces me to carry so much?
Let's start with the first query: although I always see a full glass, rather than a half one, I am so wedded to carrying everything that one of my children described their mother, "as being the most desired person to sit next to in the gym following a natural disaster."
In my defense, I don't think it's goofy for me to schlep my stuff, although I stand a teeny 4ā9ā and weigh a sliver under 100, the sight of me with a bag half my size may draw ridicule.; but I have my reasons.
I walk Doris, my nearly 3-year-old rescue, several times a day. Drivers of left-turning vehicles or bicycle riders sometimes rush their moves, nearly swiping my tush on their zeal to cross.
If God-forbid, one of those menaces were to tag me, I have everything at hand to quickly admit me to the nearest hospital. My I.D. and health insurance cards are at the ready, a cell phone, with emergency contacts, and dozens of eBooks, is tucked in it's own pocket. Snacks and a charger await, just in case I need entertainment and energy.
If my misfortunate during that walk is merely a fall caused by an overeager pooch at the Dog Park, Band-Aids and antiseptic ointment are one palm away.
Let's say I want to jot down a reminder and eschew a cellphone app for the deed, there's a notebook, plus pen and pencil lolling about.
Now let's explore Question Two; from whence comes this need to be fully prepared for disaster? Was there something in my childhood that produced this need?
My memoir, "The Division Street Princess," describes my early years living in a three-room flat above our family grocery store. My parents argued so frequently that I always worried my mom would divorce my dad.
Wrapped with that, my father was diabetic, overweight, and smoked a pack of Camels a day; I feared he would die. Could it be that the child, who anticipated disaster, grew to an adult who is always prepared?
Now let's go to the rear of Irv's Finer Foods where we see our family in the makeshift kitchen. A shelf holds daily mail, newspapers, and somewhere in the pile, homework, and a note from elementary school that requires a signature.
There's little Elaine, a perfect student, wildly tearing through the pile to find the schoolwork and permission slip. Is this small scene, and others more serious, clues that morph into an adult with a need for control? Did the child decide that she couldn't count on the adults to protect her? Is that why I'm packed for my own rescue?
But perhaps it's none of the above, and not my parent's fault. Maybe bags are just fun fashion accessories. And as to the bulk of everything stored within, well, there's that school gymnasium.