Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Women's Purses and Other Dimensions

I may not understand all that physics stuff about dimensions of space and time I was reading about last weekend. But I do know one thing. Women's handbags are somehow connected to another dimension. That's the only way to explain how things disappear and reappear inside them.

It's sort of like the socks in the drier thing. Every week, I put in 10 or 12 socks. A nice even number. I get back out somewhere from 5 to 9. I ask you, where do those things go?

Wherever it is, items in my purse go there, too. Unlike the socks, this stuff often comes back. Case in point: I have a name tag that I wear at work. I generally forget to take it off at the end of the day until I get to my car, so I always put it in my purse, in one of four little pockets on the outside. Last Monday when I got to work, I couldn't find it. I searched all the little pockets. I took everything out of my purse and looked in every nook and cranny. I even felt from the inside, because if anything is stuck down in those little pockets, you can feel it through the fabric. Nothing.

So I spent a week looking everywhere else in the world. Occasionally I even went back and emptied out the purse again. Still nothing. I was just about to order a new one, when I reached into one of the purse pockets for something else, and--you guessed it--pulled out the name tag. Right there in the pocket where it was supposed to be all along.

I admit I've gotten pretty ditzy lately. I frequently don't make it home with all my groceries because I'm bad about tossing things into someone else's cart. (I've gotten used to hearing someone scream, "Ma'am, ma'am! You're taking my cart.") I frankly wouldn't have been surprised to find my name tag in the freezer, or in my sock drawer. But in the very spot in the purse where I was looking?

Last year, I had a medium-sized handbag with no pockets. I had three items in it: a small cosmetics bag, my wallet, and a cell phone. But just try reaching in there and casually pulling out that phone. I could grope around in every corner of that bag. No phone. Eventually, I would have to take out every other item and peer directly down into the purse to find it.

So what's the explanation? I think it's obvious. Women's handbags form some sort of wormhole into another dimension. This tunnel must provide two-way access, because most of my items do come back, like my cell phone that would come and go. But where do these things go in the meantime? Are they off somewhere with the socks from the drier? Is it somewhere fun? Maybe we should build a giant handbag so we could climb in and check it out.

I'd really love to track down the mate to my one fuzzy blue slipper sock, anyway.