Our Lady of the Lost and Found by Diane Schoemperlen

Author:Diane Schoemperlen [Diane Schoemperlen ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781554689583
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada

Shopping

On Wednesday afternoon we went to the mall. It was my idea, one that I suggested over lunch with some trepidation, well aware of the possibility that inviting the Virgin Mary to the temple of Mammon might be, if not exactly a mortal sin, then at least outrageously inappropriate. But I had some errands to run and I felt it would have been rude to rush off without asking her if she wanted to come along.

Much to my relief, she said she thought it was an excellent idea, that she had, in fact, been about to suggest a shopping trip herself. She was still using my shampoo and thought it was high time she bought some of her own. Plus she needed to pay a visit to the bank machine and there were a few other odds and ends she wanted to pick up. The word Mammon was not mentioned and she did not quote to me those familiar lines: And Jesus went into the temple, and began to cast out them that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew the tables of the moneychangers, and the seats of them that sold doves. I was fairly confident that we would find no doves for sale at the mall—budgies, parakeets, cockatiels, and parrots perhaps, but not doves.

Right after lunch we got ready to go. As we gathered up our purses, I noticed that Mary’s was almost identical to one I had bought a few years ago but have since given away.

Sometimes I think I’ve spent the better part of my adult life in search of the perfect purse. Frequently I think I’ve found it, feeling sure that each new purse is the perfect purse at last, and that I will quite happily carry this one with me forever and ever. But then, sometimes quickly, sometimes more gradually, it becomes evident that this purse is not the perfect purse after all. With regular usage, it proves to be too big or too small, the strap is too short or too long, there are too many compartments or not enough. Or it proves to have been shoddily made: the lining rips, the zipper breaks, the fastener won’t stay closed or else it closes so tightly that I have to wrestle it open with both hands every time.

Once, the strap of an apparently perfect purse let loose just as I was sprinting across a busy street in the pouring rain. I ended up down on my knees in the middle of traffic, trying to gather up my wallet, my hairbrush, a pack of gum, and three tampons that were rolling around on the wet asphalt. Brakes squealed, horns blared, drivers shook their fists and cursed at me.

Soon enough I found myself back on the trail, searching once again for the perfect purse. Upon reflection, I cannot help but conclude that in this aspect, men are a lot like purses.

Mary and I got into the car, buckled up, and headed to the large mall in the heart of the suburbs on the western side of town.

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