You know when you’re having a shitty day and you meet a friend for coffee to bitch about it and then someone steals your purse right out from under your feet?
That’s the kind of day I’m having.
Literally. I know it sounds like a joke, but it’s actually, 100% my life right now.
I was sitting at a cafe on my lunch break, engrossed in a Level Ten Bitch Session. If you’ve ever achieved this high level of Bitch Sesh, you know it’s pretty intense. There’s a frenetic energy to the conversation, you feel on a different level of connection with your friend. It’s pretty great and cathartically satisfying. Typically, these sessions cover timeless woes.
As we sat in the Le Pain Quotidien on 33rd and Park, bitching about men and their unfathomable cluelessness, we reached the unthinkable: a Level Eleven Bitch Session. A Level Eleven Bitch Sesh is when you’re so riveted, a stranger can grab your sizable leather tote and walk out the door with NO ONE noticing. Think that’s absolutely ridiculous? Unbelievable? Yes and yes. I never would have thought Level Eleven was possible until it happened to me on this bitch of a day.
Where was my purse when it was pilfered? LITERALLY RIGHT UNDER MY FEET, lying propped up against the bottom of the stool where I was sitting!
How is it possible someone snatched it without my noticing? I have no idea. The cafe wasn’t very crowded, the seating plan was open and airy, giant floor to ceiling windows should have shed natural light on any thief. And still, somehow, when I got up to go back to work, my purse was no wear to be found.
“This would happen to me. Always to me, always, always, always!”
That’s one of my lines from “Hoppla! We’re Alive!” the play I closed this past weekend with Random Access Theatre. It also perfectly expresses my reaction to finding out my purse was gone. No epic chase of a thief like last time! Just POOF! VANISHED!
Now it’s not uncommon that I carry my laptop and camera in my tote, typically for blogging purposes. I thank my lucky stars I’ve been a bad blogger recently so that this was not the case!! My wallet was in my purse, yes. But it contained maybe $10 cash. My NY State ID could probably be auctioned off to the highest underage bidder, a small price compared to the hours I’d spend at the DMV to replace, but it’s also easily replaced. Really, the most valuable thing in my purse was my Laura Mercier foundation compact, completely worthless unless the thief had my exact skin color, oil-prone complexion, and bottom of the barrel hygiene standards.
To be completely honest, my purse is is not exactly pretty. It wouldn’t be a huge stretch to call it gross. I always imaged doing a cliché “What’s In My Bag!?” blog post as a huge joke.
Now I imagined a thief riffling through the candy wrappers and lose pistachio shells that habitually float at the bottom layer of my bag, the week-old copy of Time Out with chewed up gum deposited between the pages, the ziplock bag containing a tampon and a practical pair of Gap Body underwear, and thinking:
“FUCK! THIS IS THE ABSOLUTE WORSE PURSE TO STEAL IN ALL OF NEW YORK CITY!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Haha, mother fucker sucker! One person’s (PURSE-on’s?) trash is another person’s purse!
That fantasy must have played out exactly. I got a call about one purse-less hour from a doorman of a residential building 5 blocks away. Some stranger had found my purse chucked between to cars like a piece of trash and brought it to the closest building. The door man called my company from my work ID stashed in my bag. I got my beloved purse, full of my beloved trash, BACK!
Everything was where I left it (even the underwear ziplock! Guess the thief wasn’t a perv!) except my wallet. My wallet was gone for good but don’t worry, I canceled all credit cards within that hour and it turns out I can get and ID simply through the DMV website! Hooray! It’s really the best purse-stolen case scenario a New York Cliché could hope for.