I grab my keys and check my purse before heading out. It’s not a huge trip, but these days, it seems like a huge trip—a visit to the grocery store. For a little over a year now, this trip has required some extra preparation. The old usuals: cell phone—check...wallet—check...coupons—check. And the new usuals: mask—check...extra mask—check...hand sanitizer and wipes—check... gloves—check. As I make sure that my purse is stocked up for the requirements of a Covid era shopping trip, I realize that I’ve shifted the compartments in my purse. The section that once held a small cosmetic bag and nail file is now my “Covid compartment,” supplies at the ready in an era in which we carry accessories not for looks, but as life saving tools.

This got me to thinking that the contents of my purse, and how over the years the contents of these bags have been more than individual pieces, but a symbol of what phase my life was in. Some periods in my life have been so sweet and wonderful and others have not. What they all have in common is that they were not and are not permanent. 

The life I had when I had my very first first purse seems like a far off story now, like a movie I’m watching about someone else’s life. 

My first purse, a tan bulky sack that had two pieces of leather tied together in a knot to create a strap, made me feel like I had a mature, sophisticated look. I was fourteen and I didn’t need to carry the responsibility that later purses carried. Reaching into this bag, I could grab my glide on, roller ball clear lip gloss, a maxi pad securely wrapped in a paper towel (god forbid anyone should know that I experienced this natural bodily function), my green, plastic retainer case, a house key with way too many novelty key chains hanging from it, and a note my best friend Susan had passed to me in study hall. My purse also had my Chandler’s assignment notebook, a right of passage at my school, decorated with my favorite googly eyed, puffy stickers. I had what I considered a grownup wallet, small, and denim, with a heart stitched on it. There wasn’t a whole lot to put in this wallet—just a little bit of cash and my school ID. I was changing from a young girl to a teenager, and this purse represented both of these worlds, the innocence of my childhood and my yearning to grow up. 

The responsibilities in my purse grew after college. The look of my purse changed to a sleek black, leather bag with a big silver buckle on it. The ultimate sign of adulthood—a checkbook wallet—took up a chunk of the space inside. My purse also started to carry bills...for rent, electricity, cable...and instead of notes passed to me by my friends in study hall, it held small pieces of paper with phone numbers from prospective dates—blind dates people wanted to set me up with, or numbers from people I had met out at a bar (cell phones were different back then). These dates seldom worked out for me. I longed to be in a relationship, but I just couldn’t seem to meet the right person. These little pieces of paper were often little pieces of disappointment and uncomfortably awkward experiences. At the same time, I would often have a bridesmaid dress swatch stashed away in my purse in order to buy shoes of a matching color, a common practice of the time (a practice which should stay in the past). 

My purse went from carrying a monologue book as I pursued acting, my childhood dream, to carrying a lesson plan book when I became a teacher and changed course. I was figuring out who I was and what I wanted to do.

Later, in my mid-thirties, I carried a purple, studded bucket bag. After many years of uncomfortable and forgettable dates, I finally got married and entered the next phase of my life, a very sweet phase. Several years into marriage, we tried to have a baby and through the course of many doctors’ appointments, my purse was crowded with medicine and pills, pamphlets, and contact info. of new doctors to try. At this point, my purse was filled with hope, but it often felt like desperation...grasping at straws.

At last, with the right doctor and infertility treatments, our dreams came true, and my purse transformed into a wonderful diaper bag full of pacifiers, board books, and bottles. What a joyful and precious phase of my life, the most precious phase. But like all of the other phases, the days turned into weeks, then months, and then years, and  in a blink of an eye, our baby was growing into a little girl. 

Not needing the diaper bag any longer, I was back to a regular purse—a gold, metallic bulky sack this time (I was still carrying some toys and snacks). This next phase included coin tokens to our favorite arcade restaurant, punch cards to the local jumpy place, and lots of crayons.

My daughter is about turn eleven, so my purse has grown smaller again. It sometimes still has those tokens and punch cards, and has also become a receptacle for her phone, so it’s mostly back to items I need, which these days include all of the Covid essentials. 

None of these phases of life, or purses that have accompanied them, have lasted, even if I wanted them, to. What we consider normal—a way of life—can seem so indefinite; we don’t even realize that how we are living in the moment is constantly changing. What we consider normal today might be normal for a time, but then things change. We have different people, places,  surroundings, and circumstances that come in and go out of our lives.

Let’s hope that is the case for Covid, and soon. No more making sure we have our masks with us as we run out to the store, or that we have hand sanitizer so quickly at the ready, or that we step back when we encounter other people. For over a year, my purse has carried supplies that are attached to worry and fear—What if the people I love get sick? What if I get sick? It has also carried sadness and despair knowing why I carry my mask, gloves, and sanitizer—so many people have been sick and so many people have died. This year, my purse has felt heavier than ever. I can’t wait for the next phase of life and go back to carrying a much lighter load once again.

-Debbie Cohen

Debbie Cohen is first and foremost the mother to an incredible, funny, and creative ten year old daughter. Debbie has been published in Chicago Parent, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and on Bustle.com. Debbie recently published a children's book entitled "Lights, Camera, Action: It's Cassie Lewett" about a young girl who overcomes stage fright to pursue her dream of being in a play. As a reading and writing teacher to middle school students, Debbie enjoys encouraging and inspiring her students to gain self-confidence in their abilities. Debbie lives just outside of Chicago with her husband, daughter, and cat, Cozmo.