I’m no fashionista.  I thrive in jeans and a corduroy shirt.  So when I find out I have to look really good at a fancy event, I have a little panic.  If it’s late at night, it might turn into a big panic.  I’m already sweating out what I’m going to wear to the Lambda Literary Awards at the end of May.

Well, actually, to be more accurate, I know what I’m going to wear.  I have a great outfit.  I bought new shoes this weekend.  That’s not the trouble.  The trouble is that my fashion-consultant entourage (read:  my mother, my sister, and my ex-model friend) tell me I must carry a purse.  An evening bag.  A clutch.

I believe in pockets.  Hands should be free to function.  A clutch seems like a ridiculous waste of a hand for a whole evening.  “Can’t I get something to sling over my shoulder?” I ask.

They screw up their faces.  “Like what?  A backpack?”

“Well . . . “  I draw the word out.

“NO!”  They are not equivocal on this.

So a clutch it is.  But I won’t spend a lot on it.  I trawled through TJ Maxx this weekend.  My God, purses are funny.  I don’t think I’ve ever really looked at a purse aisle.  The colors!  The shapes!  The prices!  I can’t wait to write a scene about purse-shopping into a novel.

But my sister came through and loaned me four clutches from her extensive collection.  I’m to dress and practice moving around with each and then pick the one that works. 

I’ve got my work cut out for me.  Thank heavens I already have the shoes.