It has been nineteen days since the Carrico, Jrs' joyous reentry into the US of A. My first order of business was to don my Atlanta Falcons baseball cap (the nation of France has not come to the realization that baseball hats without a yankee's logo do, in fact, exist) and attend the Sedalia Blues Festival where I was in Americana overload. There was the purple leopard print mumu, cowboy hats in abundance, cups of soda that are larger than some european motor vehicles, flames on cars, and bumper stickers that confirmed my suspicion that patriotism and xenophobia have continued to inch closer together during my year abroad. I have reveled in my newfound ability to converse with strangers sans the aid of grunting and pointing. I have eaten at Moe’s. I went to target. I rode in an elevator that both Abbey and I were able to fit in comfortably. Air conditioning. I ordered and consumed ”Freedom Fries.” I ate a deerburger. I had a religious experience walking back into the weightroom. I sat around a campfire outside of a trailer in a field with some friends and a cooler full of busch light. “The Situation” is my favorite Jersey Shore character. I went to a wine festival in the middle of a monsoon. My time in the states, suffice to say, has been fantastic, despite a painful, persisting, purse-shaped void.
I was in a man named Bob’s office recently discussing my credit rating and the possibility of purchasing a motor vehicle. He was rambling on about something and Abbey was taking copious notes but I found myself unable to concentrate through the pain emanating from my right buttocks and ascending my spine. The pain became unbearable as I stood up, removed my wallet from my back pocket before slamming it on Bob’s desk and proclaiming “I want my purse back.” Bob was confused. Abbey emitted a wholehearted, emphatic laugh with a somewhat mocking tone while Bob nervously chuckled and wondered what in God’s plush earth I was talking about. I had been trying to get re-acclimated to post-purse life now for some time, but I had had enough. (I had also had problems with subject-verb agreement and the verb had, so I had had to adjust to using had properly as well...moving on)
I like to think of myself as someone who prefers to take in many points of view on issues, attempting to give equal representation to all available sides of an argument while forming my own points of view rather than bringing an immovable set of positions into an argument. This is what led me to embrace my identity as a purse carrier in the first place - giving this French cultural norm a chance. In America, though, 'male' and 'purse-carrier' tend to be thought of as mutually exclusive identities - you simply can not be both. In order to give this cultural norm its due, I returned to my American way of carrying things upon setting foot in my homeland, placing keys and a ball point pen in my right front pocket, cell phone in the front left and my wallet in my back right pocket (hence the aforementioned right buttock pain). After two weeks of removing everything from my pockets every time I wanted to sit down without being stabbed by keys or having my buttocks numbed by my wallet I joyfully returned to my purse-carrying ways a few days ago following my emotional episode in the office of Bob. The road of a male purse-carrier may not be easy - even a good friend (who to his credit is quite open minded) stated “I just can’t get used to the purse thing.” However, with all due apologies to those whose worldview I offend and with profound respect to the same group, the purse is back and is here to stay. Don’t knock it until you try it.
Thanks for reading.
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