Purse-aholic

Hello. My name is Renae, and I am a purse addict. It all started when I was in 6th grade, and my mother bought me a pair of cream-colored kitten heels and a matching clutch purse. The kitten heels seemed fun at first, but the execution of controlling my already-awkward 12-year-old legs to walk on tiny, nail-sized spikes . . . not so fun. I twisted my ankle more than a few times that summer.

But the purse? Man, oh man. I could carry some loot in that thing! Mints. Gum. Lip-Quenchers Strawberry Lip Gloss. A variety of pens in every available color, and an ice cream cone-shaped note pad. I could even carry a little keychain with a stuffed koala dangling from the end.

So really, it’s my mother’s fault. If she hadn’t bought me that clutch purse at such a young, impressionable age, I might be a different person today.

But she did, and I’m not, so all I can do is try to manage the addiction. Which isn’t going very well. Right now, in my closet, I have several dozen purses in every size, shape, and texture. And that’s after I downsized my collection and donated some of them to a local charity.

Last week, the burst of fall weather brought with it the need to change purses again. So I climbed on my little closet-stool and pulled down several brown leather purses I hadn’t used since last fall. That’s when the fun really began.

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Yes, this really is the top of my closet, with smaller bags inside the bigger bags . . .

See, I have this habit of changing my mind about which purse to carry at the last possible minute, which leads to grabbing another purse, tossing the essentials in, and leaving the rest of my junk in the original purse. Which would be fine if I cleaned out the original as soon as I got home, but no. Of course I don’t do that. The original purse usually sits on a chair in my bedroom for about two weeks. Then it gets moved to the floor of my closet. Then, after tripping over it for another two weeks, I Shaquille O’Neal it to the highest shelf until I’m ready for it again.

Which leads me back to the point of my story. When I retrieved those purses from the top of my closet, (and by retrieved, I mean protected my head from the avalanche that occurred when I tugged on the first one,) I discovered a treasure-trove in the midst of the forgotten receipts and gum wrappers I’d stored for the past year. Here’s a list of this year’s booty:

  1. $20 cash.
  2. Four sticks of gum, still in the wrappers.
  3. A peppermint, still in its package. (Not the hard kind, but the melt-in-your-mouth, sugary kind. I love those!)
  4. Seven tea-bags, still in the wrappers. Among the flavors: Vanilla chai, peppermint, peach-mango, English breakfast and cinnamon. All my favorites.
  5. Twelve packets of stevia.
  6. Five pencils.
  7. Eight pens, all of which still write. Purple, blue, black, and green among them.
  8. Two hand-wipes – the kind that come in the little packets at Chic-Fil-A.

 

Not a bad haul, in my opinion. I’ve had better, but hey. Twenty bucks and a purple pen is nothing to sneeze at.

As I added up my treasures, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the forgotten gems I have, hidden away on a shelf in my heart. Pearls of wisdom, rubies of peace, diamonds of joy that God’s already given me, just because I’m His child. But instead of wearing them daily, I often shove them in a dark corner and forget I have access to them. I go through too many days stressed out, worried, and full of angst, when all I have to do is make use of the riches that already belong to me.

Today, I’m going to examine my Bible, and adorn myself with the assets I find there. And the cool thing about God’s Word is, it’s always in season, and it never goes out of style.

“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the Word of our God stands forever,” Isaiah 40:8.

If you enjoyed this article, and you’d like to donate to my purse fund . . . or my grocery bill, since I now house a large vacuum cleaner teenage boy, you’ll find more of the same in The Breaking Point: Lessons for Life from a Scatterbrained Wife.

 

 

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