I am living a lie. I pretend to be a free and easy devil-may-care sort of lady. By this I mean I am a small purse girl. I like to travel light. I do not haul around a large pocketbook or hefty handbag. I like to carry a wallet, lip gloss and a debit card. I rarely carry cash. I have a husband for that. I love a little crossbody purse that is no bigger than a pouch or perhaps a little wallet on a string — something tiny and light. I like to move through my day hands-free.
I make up for the size deficit with a tote bag. This is what I put the smaller purse inside. I also toss in some light snacks, my emotional support water bottle (I drink a gallon a day no lie), a few more snacks “just to be safe,” and any little items I’m carrying around for errands that may arise.
I tend to keep my tote bag in the vehicle or under my desk. This allows me to maintain my street ‘cred as a light bag girlie. I can pretty much distance myself from any accountability for what might be in my tote bag.This system worked pretty well until last week.
I had occasion to rush into the emergency room. First, let me clarify, we are all just fine. I didn’t know that THEN of course. It was just one of those crazy things where I was needed and I went. It took me about 10,000 years to find a parking space. I’m not mad about it. I understand hospitals couldn’t possibly anticipate all the parking needs.
When I’m already in a mild panic circling around, looking for an available parking spot in a full lot starts to make tow-away zones look really tempting. How attached am I to this car anyway? Fortunately, someone backed out of their space so I wasn’t forced into a life of crime, yet.
Somehow, despite technically being old enough to know better, I still operate like it’s the 1900s, and we don’t need to get through security everywhere. I hustled toward the doors only to be met by what any other normal human being would have already anticipated: security guards. It’s a big city hospital. Of course they’re going to have security guards. I hefted my tote bag onto the counter with trepidation. I made it through the scanner with no problem. My tote bag did not fare as well.
The young guard first pulled not one but two clementines out of my bag. This was followed by a small Tupperware container of peanuts, assorted lip balms and glosses (a girl likes to have OPTIONS). Digging further, he pulled out a 5-by-7-inch brass picture frame and 4-by-6-inch double folding frame that contains faded photos of children that were clearly from the 1960s (I have no idea who these children are). They were purchased at a weekend estate sale and I forgot to take them out. Still, this sweet security specialist soldiered on.
Deep. Wiggling his hand deeper into the bag like the brave soul he is, he pulled out a drawstring velvet pouch. It was heavy, bigger than a brick and wrapped with multiple wires. The guard held it out toward me, gingerly, and asked “what IS this?”
Me: brightly, “oh that’s a gimbal.”
Him: blinking, unsmiling.
Me: “you know, it’s like a selfie stick for filming video with your phone.”
He blinked again. I cannot prove that he sighed, but if he didn’t, he certainly should have.
Meanwhile, there was a line stacking up behind me that might have been people who were in actual pain. Remember this is an ER.
At that point, my embarrassment and impatience were at a tie. I offered to just leave the bag there. I could always come back for it later — or not.
This guard was nothing if not committed. He was in for a penny in for a pound — of whatever he might find. This is when he realized that there was actually a smaller bag inside the bigger bag. Of course there was.
This was a pretty uneventful score other than the steel nail clippers, a mini knife Mr. Wonderful gave me to carry with me, a pocket mirror and a rock. The rock is an inside joke from when Mr. Wonderful once said I carried so many things I wouldn’t notice a rock. I carried it for weeks before I noticed, proving that he was absolutely right.
I don’t think the security guard found that the least bit funny.
I’m showing my age here, but suffice to say that had Monty Hall appeared for an impromptu round of purse bingo, I could have easily won every round of “Let’s Make A Deal.”
(Kymberly Foster Seabolt welcomes comments in care of FosterSeabolt@gmail.com; P.O. Box 38, Salem, OH 44460; and KymberlyFosterSeabolt.com)
