My Big Girl Wallet

In the past couple days I have spent too much money. Thankfully, not a whole paycheck's worth, or on a credit card. It has also been in pursuit of early Christmas shopping, so I can feel morally at ease with it.

Two things were for myself: art magazines and a new wallet.

The art magazines because I've been devoid of imaginative imagery so long I'm over dosing on tactile pages of plush paper covered in lavish paintings of surreal human forms in some out-of-the-box cura scuro poses.

The wallet, though, the wallet is because I have never bought one for myself. My wallets have varied from empty cigarette boxes and rubber bands to designer leather change purses with little hearts stitched into them. But I have never bought one.

To me, this is a 15 year long irony to which an end must be put.

So, at the age of 26 I have bought a wallet. It is a flat pocket book, after Betty Draper aesthetics. It is hard on the spinal inside, but with plush sides, and covered in waterproof plastic. It snaps shut at the top with difinitive accuracy. It's pink satin lined, and holds cards and some money. It's flexibility is marginal, so I can't cram if full of superfluisity.

I love it.

I call it my Big Girl Purse.

Until Short Round points out the big cartoons on the sides of it. On one side a single cross

-eyed piggy. On the other, Gir—the demented robot of Invader Zim fame—is smiling at a TV surrounded by more piggies.

I love it.

Physical things aren't supposed to bring you true happiness, but this wallet literally gives me the same gratification that a good flirt session usually provides.

This must be why people obtain credit cards in the first place.

And why I still won't.