The Metamorphosis of a Purse

When did my purse evolve into my car? It’s so full of stuff I can’t find anything! Each time I need my checkbook, a multitude of receipts fly out, like birds out of a magician’s hat. Each time I need my driver’s license, I feel like I’m going on an archeological excavation, digging and sifting, and digging…and it’s not such a big purse, mind you.

 

Looking back on my life, I see how my purse has evolved with me. In each stage of my life, my purse represents who I was, and who I have come to be. Its contents are a testament to my identity.

 

The first recollection I have of a purse, must have been when I was about five. It contained all the important items pertinent to a five year old ‘mommy’. A plastic lipstick, probably a doll’s bottle—and most likely, my mother’s keys.

 

I don’t remember having a real need for a purse in elementary school. Junior high, though, was another story. I’m sure it was filled with notes from friends, pictures of friends; phone numbers of friends—and of course, a pack of gum. I’m sure there were plenty of movie stubs, music store receipts, and a few receipts from the Chinese restaurants.

 

In high school, my purse became off limits. That purse, contained house—and car keys. That purse bespoke of my independence. A driver’s license. My traffic citations. My SAT course stuff. Tons of movie stubs. More music store receipts. More treiffe restaurant receipts. A concert ticket. My purse was closed off to the world like I had become, like most typical teenagers. It was self-centered—just like its owner.

 

Enter college, and my purse matured somewhat. It still held some movie stubs—but not much. It now carried plane tickets, as I traveled to and from school. It had dorm keys. It held for the first time a checkbook, and the beginning of fiscal responsibility. A Blockbuster card. There were plenty of receipts for college textbooks and the mandatory midnight pizza—but my purse began to take a somewhat more serious tone.

 

By the time I got married, my purse stopped being about me. It held things—for us. It held our apartment keys. Our car keys. Our bills to be mailed. Our checkbook. Our credit cards. And even though I was the one who carried the purse, it was not mine alone.

 

Motherhood changed the status of my purse COMPLETELY. Firstly, in a religious sense. My purse suddenly became frum. There were no more receipts for Saturday afternoon shopping excursions. No more non-kosher gum. The treife restaurant receipts were replaced by kosher market receipts. In there were receipts for Shabbos candles. Challahs. Kosher bakeries. Instead of friend’s phone numbers, I now carried around Rabbi’s phone numbers. Gone were the movie stubs, and the music store receipts. Gone was the Blockbuster card. Gone was my hairdresser’s phone number. My purse suddenly became holy!

 

But—most importantly—my purse was not my own anymore. It became the property of anyone old enough to recognize its importance.  So as I stand in the checkout line, looking for my card, I pull out a stack of Sara’s Pizza receipts. A Costco card. My poor worn out Target card, along with 20 receipts from that store. A diaper. One sock. A bag of smashed crackers and a good helping of cookie crumbs. A checkbook, which has been scribbled on. Tzeddakah. More kosher store receipts. Publix receipts. Old prescriptions from the pediatrician for decongestants. A drawing. A phone book (if you flip it to ‘R’ you can find at least fifteen Rabbi’s listed). A receipt for an Uncle Moishy tape. A mitzvah note. And oh yes—my card!

 

May we merit to soon see a time when the purses of Jewish women everywhere will reach their holy potential. A time when we will walk proudly through the streets of Yerushalaim, with our purses on our shoulders, in the land that has been our birthright since the beginning of time. May it be speedily in our days, Amen!