Bag lady

My parents were here for a visit this past weekend. I don't see them all that often anymore, since they live nearly six hours away, and each time I see them, one or both of them seem to have picked up some strange new quirk that I can attribute only to the lunacy of old age. I'll be at their house for the weekend and I'll discover that my father has for some reason decided that it's necessary to roll down his car window when he pulls in the garage, because apparently the air inside the car will remain fresher if it mingles with the air in the dusty garage. Or my mother will suddenly have accumulated 47 artificial plants and 76 various baskets, because presumably baskets and fake plants make things feel homey.

I'm not going to talk about all the reasons my parents are crazy, however. They are, for the very most part, good people (even if they did both vote for George W.--twice). They taught me all sorts of useful things, they provided a good and stable home throughout my formative years, and their dogmatic Catholic values were apparently successful in raising three primarily moral and mostly well-adjusted daughters. Besides all of that, I'm well aware of the minor elements of crazy in myself and most everyone I know, so really I'm in no position to judge. I would, however, like to focus for just a few minutes on one such element of crazy that I somehow can't make peace with... namely, my mother's purse.

My mother's purse is not, in fact, a purse. For most women, it would more aptly be called a tote bag. Like most of my friends, I have purses and bags of varying sizes, and I often choose the appropriate bag for the day based on what I think I'll need or where I think I might be going. On an average Saturday, involving a trip to Target or Home Depot and maybe a movie or a few drinks with friends, a simple everyday purse no bigger than 8" by 6" will do. All I typically carry with me is a small wallet, my checkbook, my cell phone, a pen, a pack of gum, maybe a tampon, and a lip balm. On a more extended day trip or an outdoor event, I'll bring what I consider my "big purse," which provides additional space for a bottle of water, a neatly folded lightweight sweater, my camera, and/or a book.

My mother, on the other hand, seems to consider what she might need for the day in much the same way a studio audience participant on "Let's Make a Deal" once did. She could easily remove the monkey wrench and the ball of twine from her bag, but if she did, it would of course be on the one day that Monty was ready with a $100 bill for the first person who could produce these items.

This past Saturday, as I headed out for a day of carefully planned activities with my family, I brought my "big purse." The extra space seemed a bit superfluous, as I wasn't bothering with a camera and I certainly didn't expect to find any quiet, private time for light reading. I wanted the sweater in anticipation of air conditioned environments, however, so the big purse it was.

Around 10:30 a.m., waiting for the RiverCity Trolley outside the Convention Center, my mother eyed me with jealousy as I pulled out my water bottle. I offered her a sip while I considered the size of her bag in comparison to mine. My "big purse" is actually significantly smaller than her "everyday" purse (a.k.a. tote bag), and yet, she apparently didn't have room to include her own bottle of water. I started wondering how she's managed to carry a bag that size every day for 30 years without developing a crooked back or noticeably sloped shoulders when I suddenly realized she had not one, but TWO bags with her for the day. Having one on each shoulder apparently balances out the load, but I still think lack of calcium will not be the primary culprit if she develops a hump in her old age.

I questioned the second bag, and she replied that it was necessary for the camera and extra film she wanted with her for the day. I am fully confident I could fit the camera, film, and all other daily necessities in just her "purse" and still have room to spare, but I know better than to question her at this point. The ridiculously oversized bag, you see, is apparently MY fault.

If you ask my mother why she needs such a big purse, she'll say, "Oh, I USED to be able to get by with a little purse like that... but then I had CHILDREN! And suddenly it was 'Mom, I need a Band-Aid!' and 'Mom, do you have a nail clipper?' and 'Mom, I need a Kleenex!'" Her favorite purse item to point out is the tiny foldable scissors she decided to carry with her for clipping off restaurant drinking straws to toddler-friendly length (a scissors she still carries with her, despite the fact that she hasn't regularly traveled with a toddler in over 20 years).

I know several women with children, and my mother is the only one I know who blames her children (particularly her grown children) for her literal excess baggage. Most mothers carry an extra bag for necessities while their children are in diapers, but the majority of them are able to pare down again when their children reach grade school age. The fact that she's not been able to do so is not our fault, though I suppose it's in keeping with the stereotypical martyrism of a Catholic mother to feel that it is. Never mind that if she stops carrying all these things presumably for other people, then people will stop asking for them. In some small way I expect it makes her feel useful, of course, to be able to offer a Band-Aid or a pencil sharpener or $40 in Scrip for Shopko or Applebee's at just a moment's notice.

The real culprit of the nomad-worthy purse is, of course, simple habit. If you get used to having a big bag, you get used to carrying more stuff. Once you step up in size, it's hard to go back to the tiny purse. Just ask my friend Lisa, who's trying unsuccessfully to cram all her stuff in her cute new little TJ Maxx find after carrying a utilitarian messenger bag daily for several months. Personally, I'm always hesitant to buy any purse bigger than my current everyday purse, for fear of getting used to the extra space. Many women fear one day turning into their mother; I'm probably one of only a select few for whom that fear involves handbags.