When it comes to phobias or fears, my list will probably be comparable to many other people. I’m not fond of snakes or spiders. Heights tend to get my blood pumping, that sort of thing. I’d rather not confront a shark, or a bear, or a mountain lion, and I feel that these are common ‘fears’. But I have one that some might question… I am deathly afraid of the contents of women’s purses.
I wish I was joking, but I’m not. If my wife asks me to grab her something from her purse, I will instead grab the whole darn thing and walk it over to her, holding it extended out to my side, away from my body, as if holding a dirty diaper or a live grenade. A woman’s purse is much like their mind… you never, EVER know what is going on in there. It’s never one thing… it’s a hundred things. And those hundred things may have absolutely nothing to do with one another. Chapstick, next to a hair scrunchy, sitting on a coffee hut punch card, up against unspeakable hygiene stuff, next to some hedgehog-themed bandaids, stuck to that pair of sunglasses she stole from you… you get the idea. I feel like if I reach my hand into a purse, I may never get it back. Or it will smell like ‘spring meadows’, or pickles from a Subway sandwich, or worse. I might not want it back. And I can’t think of any one incident that may have created this fear. My mom had quite the bottomless purse, and I was perfectly fine not knowing the contents. My wife’s purse is usually much smaller, but the ignorance of not knowing what it contains is pure bliss. I usually am a curious person and would like to know or be informed on most matters, but the contents of a women’s purse can remain a mystery, and I’ll sleep well knowing I’ll fail that question if it ever comes up on JEOPARDY.