From the window of my bus, I see women passing by, all carrying their purse. A woman's purse is so entwined with whom she is that in a way it becomes part of her nature - at least her public persona. Back in shamanistic times, people used to believe that part of their self - or their very soul - was kept outside of their bodies, in an object such as a treasure chest. Look no further than Pirates of the Caribbean - Dead Man's Chest, where evil Davy Jones keeps his heart in a locker. We may not believe this stuff anymore, but women still carry their public identity along with them in the mysterious handbag.
Ask any man, and they instinctively know that a woman's handbag is off-limits, that they can't touch it. It is her female mystery, the darkness all males are drawn to like moth to a flame. Getting into a woman's bag is a hidden desire which has definite sexual connotations. A good friend of mine told me how she went to a shrink once, and the second or third time they met the shrink asked if he may see what is inside her bag. She thought nothing of it at the time, but as it later turned out, the psychologist was a womanizer who tried to hit on her too. So, a word of advice, girls: do not let a man look into your bag (unless of course he is an airport attendant!)
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Actually, you are welcome to look inside my purse. You will find my wallet, my small make-up bag, some hand lotion, and a few cough drops. Not much of my soul there.
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