Lost My Purse

I was off to brunch this morning with krip friends. I tore out the apartment door and flew down Broadway, skreeing past useless pedestrians. It was Saturday: I wanted food. Unfortunately, such was my speed and such the loose manner in which my purse was attached to my back that my life's identifying objects were lost. boom. gone. right off the back of my chair.

Of course, I didn't exactly notice this -- I was going with the speed demon approach: terrorize some tourists and run with exhilaration. An hour later (all conversation, no food), I notice the unbearable lightness of my backrest. It's all over (I think). So, we all walk back together, navigating the city carefully; we wouldn't want to hurt anyone after all. Hours pass. I cancel my credit cards; work out a list of what was in my bag and wallet (cellphone, driver's license, green card, metrocard, BART card, healthcare information, money, gym card, Purell, lotion, gloves, and two complimentay tix to a furniture and design show in SF); and find out where I should file a police report.

I'm pretty stressed out, but am mostly reconciled to the fact that there's not an awful lot to do but wait and periodically call my phone to see if anyone picks up (actually, it turns out on the iphone that a password prevents that from happening). Then, a series of good things happens. I have google voice -- a service that, among other things, transcribes my voicemails and send them to me as either text messages or emails. I get an email from my doc in California saying some dude in NYC called him to say he had my purse but he couldn't reach me.

"We saw you speeding by us. Really impressed," he explains, "then a few blocks later, we saw your bag on the ground. When we looked inside, we could see your gloves and we recognized you from your license. We ran after you, but you'd gone." There then begins a slow chase through NYC. My phone shows that I rang them using a hotel phone. "No, the wheelchair lady (my friend) has already checked out," intones the front desk. The finders go to the nearby police station. "Leave it with us." The finders think the contents are too important to be left anywhere. So, they go through my stuff.

I've been wondering all day what my stuff reveals about me. No photographs, no reminders, no receipts, no coffee cards, no storecards, no personal stuff. My wallet and bag are all about style and function. At the same time as there is nothing personal -- I like to think of myself as a cipher -- everything you would need to formally steal my identity is available.

"Your life is in that bag." It is.... and it isn't.