Charming, but single

I dumped my purse out on the floor. My new glasses had to be somewhere.

“Seriously, they couldn’t just walk off.”

I cursed.

My fingers frantically fumbled through receipts from sandwich shops and bar tabs and change and Bed Bath and Beyond coupons, through the junk mail and half-empty tubes of lip gloss and gum wrappers — all artifacts of my single woman’s existence. The bar tabs with one glass of wine because a man bought my next and bills from to-go dinners for one, eaten in front of the TV with wax paper wrappers spread across my lap as I stretch across my bed, propped up by pillows on a Tuesday night after work, drinking an Import left over from a dinner weeks before, the junk mail I stuffed in my purse because I’m too lazy to sort it just then, the lip gloss I smeared across my lips to make them shine because shiny lips make me feel sexy and gum chewed obsessively since I quit smoking.

What would an archeologist who discovered my purse think?

I grabbed the next purse and crouched down, trying not to tip forward as I rested my weight on my heels.

“Seriously!”

More artifacts of my life – a Clinique compact, three pens, post-its with important phone numbers, a pair of sunglasses, stray earrings and bobby pins were strewn across the floor. I grabbed one pin and tucked it into my hair to keep it off my face during the day.

Frustrated and late, I stuffed my wallet, cell phone and a small makeup case back into my purse and grabbed my back-up glasses. I stomped out of the house grumpy.

I returned hours later and immediately began stripping out of my work clothes as I walked through the apartment – my heels landed by the doorway as the lock snapped in place, my purse dropped next to the couch as I arched my back in a relaxed stretch and peeled off the thin poppy-colored button-down sweater that landed on the arm of the couch. I continued to my bedroom and exchanged a black knee-length skirt for a pair of sweats and a camisole for a soft cotton tank top. I headed to the bathroom, unhooked my silver necklace and dangling earrings and cleaned off the makeup that remained on my face. I pulled the bobby pins and elastics out of my hair in favor of a stretchy headband.

I hopped over a puddle of purse things on the way to the kitchen to heat some sort of dinner. And something stuck to my foot. I hopped on one leg to the freezer and, reaching down, I pulled a business card from my heel.

I examined it carefully.

“Little Mr. Small Town,” I muttered. “Attorney at Law.”

I smiled and set the card – more evidence of my lifestyle – on the counter while I rustled through my pantry. A few minutes later I pulled a piping plate from the microwave and poured iced tea into a wine glass, which always makes me feel like a little kid pretending to be grown up.

I balanced my dinner on my lap as I changed the channels and sipped the sweet tea. Just another weeknight – dinner and then body-related maintenance like nail filing and moisturizing various parts like elbows and knees and my poor abused feet.

Yes. Just another night of fun. I snuggled against the pillows.

Another night. And suddenly, I can’t stop thinking about the guy.