My whole life, I have aspired to be a woman with a small purse. Here’s where I’m at on the small purse front: I once emptied out my purse — a biannual affair — and discovered two small purses hiding within.

I like to think of my handbag as more of a life bag, if you will. In it contains everything that I need to live my life. It also contains evidence of a life once lived: receipts, movie ticket stubs, crumbs, etc. Whatever, I own my messes.

Anyway, the thing about chicks with small purses is that you know they’ve got their shit in order. They do their laundry. They don’t know what last call looks like. Their nails aren’t chipped. They own more than one cleaning product. They probably even book their hair appointments at the tail-end of their last hair appointment instead of frantically trying to get a day-of job done in a two-hour window, and this is really what any of this is about: How do people know that they’re going to have enough money for a luxurious haircut and color — you know that girls with small purses are getting highlights and lowlights for their highlights and highlights for their lowlights — 4-6 weeks before they even need them?

I don’t even want a small purse. Frankly, small purses suck. You know the girl with the small purse doesn’t have a spare tampon or a q-tip or hand lotion or some weird but totally readable book, in the right circumstances, from the 30% off display at Barnes & Noble in there.

I just want what the small purse represents: An entire life with less fucking clutter.