When I was little, my mother carried a reasonably-sized purse. The strange thing was that no matter what I wanted or needed, she was able to pull it out of her purse.
Cold? Here’s a scarf.
Need hand lotion? Need breath mints? Indigestion? Headache? Bandaid? Hungry? Thirsty? Need to sew something?
Somehow it was all in her purse.
For a long time I carried no purse at all. In college it was nothing but keys attached to a card-holder, which I stuck somewhere (often lost) inside of a nondescript backpack. Then came a series of bags that have gradually increased in size until they hit diaper-bag proportions when my kid was born.
This morning at work, the guy next to me leaned into my cube and said, “Do you happen to have a small screwdriver and screws so that I can fix my glasses?”
“Why yes,” I said, and pulled a little kit out of my purse.
Suddenly I realized that I’m all grown up.