Due to ingenious circumstances of me being rather stressed out and lazy, and wrung out by the heat and humidity, and also going on this lose the weight now regimen, I am shamed to say I havent changed my bag for over a couple of weeks.
For me thats like not brushing my teeth everyday.
The full horror of this hit me this morning, when I tried to dig into its confines and retrieve what was potentially a very important paper. Namely, a leaflet that came in with the morning newspapers announcing some summer camps three buildings away from where I live. In saner times, this leaflet would have been pounced on and filed immediately in the file of all things regarding leaflets of useful things in the vicinity, the moment it fluttered down as the husband shook it, like he always does every morning, leaving me scrounging at the flutter downs not very unlike them beggars scrounging for the notes flung into the air by drunk philanthrope.
I suspect he just likes to see me at his feet. Something about that Thakur ancestry has to come through.
Anyway, this leaflet had been picked up and shoved into the handbag for future filing and referencing when the summer holidays would begin. Given that the momentuous migraine inducing occasion is two days away I thought it would be a good time to dig out the leaflet and make that call.
So began the search. I stuck my hand into my bag and kept feeling around, various assorted odds and ends came into the hand. Ever seen the Animal Planet on the vets helping a cow deliver, with their entire hands upto their arms up in the cow’s you know what, thats what I felt like. I swear I could feel something move in my bag, and it was not a pleasant feeling. I screamed and recovered my courage. Ordered two strong coffees and continued. I pulled out whatever paper like object I could find, and failed to locate the very important piece of paper. But here’s what I did find.
My notebook cum diary. With assorted pages and scraps kept in it. Bills. Diet plans printed out from the net and kind mails. A photograph of the husband from his modelling days circa 1990. A photograph of the husband from his non modelling days circa 2003. Pre the workouts. The brat asked if Papa was pregnant.
Two pairs of sunglasses. One, my beloved Ford Samantha. The other a rasta one that I just love for its Jackie O shape.
The brat’s sunglasses from Lilliput.
My spectacle case and contact lens case. My contact lens solution.
Infinite numbers of scrunchie bands and butterfly clips, which I swear are mating furiously within the dark privacy of the bag and multiplying like God commanded them to.
My P-cap (Yes, I have this thing about the sun)
And my sunblock lotion. (I have this big big thing about the sun. Yes)
My house keys.
My pills. (too much information, you think)
My powder compact.
My Lacto Calamine. (I am a Lacto Calamine girl, what can I say. Have always used it from the time I realised that good skin meant hard work. Am still working hard)
Infinite numbers of lipsticks, lipliners, eyeliners, a tweezer (I have PCOD. ANd hair that grows everywhere. I tell you), perfume samples, those miniatures you get when you buy a big one.
Some body lotion.
Some polos and assorted mints.
Pens. Millions of pens, which I can never ever find when I want them. Of which the majority will be dead and unwritable.
A stickem note pad. In case I ever want to write some notes and stick them on wherever. Like my phone number on the windshield of a car with a deadly looking driver.
Whisper single pack.
Handkerchiefs. Two to three.
Perhaps what I really need is a psychiatrist, not a new, bigger, bag. To unload all my insecurities.