I called my best friend today to find out where she would be doing her residency, but she reminded me that she finds out on Thursday, helpfully clueing me in that today was Wednesday.  I felt bad until she reminded me that she never calls me on my birthday.  We’ve known each other since we were 18, but she always thinks my birthday is the 7th instead of the 8th.  The one time she called me on the day, she apologized for the late birthday wishes.

Since we weren’t figuring out where I would be traveling to visit her for the next four years, I told her I was going purse shopping.  She agreed that sounded fun until I said, “I know exactly what I want.”


“NOOOO!” she said with a laugh because she knows what I always forget about me, which is that I think what I want is simple until I start looking for it.  Then, I realize that I have a lot of opinions.  I don’t think that’s a bad thing.  It means that I know what I want.  But, then again, I remember the first time I saw Meg Ryan order pie in “When Harry Met Sally,” and I realized this person was me, basically.  This is what I look like to people who have witnessed me buying shoes or shopping for underwear.  Or purses.  It’s why I usually shop for those things alone now.  “I just want it the way I want it,” Sally says, and I think: Exactly.

So, Christi made fun of me because it’s possible I will spend an improbably long time looking for a black bag in which to stash my stuff.  Because I’ve started looking, and now I know that want I really want is something that doesn’t have much structure.  It should be big enough that it could hold two books, my lunch, a magazine, makeup bag and a sweater.  Ideally, it could be used as carry on luggage in a pinch, but not look like luggage.  Minimal texture.  A braided strap is a deal breaker.  Two straps are preferable to one, and length matters.  Simple.


Which reminds me of another line from the movie where Harry concludes that Sally is a high maintenance woman who thinks she’s low maintenance.  I think I actually am low maintenance, but then again, if that characterization fits me, I would think that.  It’s a conundrum.  But if I meet a smart, funny guy who is okay with how much I hate tomatoes, and onions, but not if they’re cooked in olive oil.  Deep frying them is out of the question, though.  Or the way I’m creeped out by mayonnaise, unless it’s in chicken salad or maybe on French fries.  And if that same guy can respect how much I dislike mixing salty and sweet flavors in one dish, well, then I might just have to fake an orgasm for him in a deli.