The women who live in my wallet

… and by wallet I mean purse. And by purse I mean bag. And by bag, I mean the leather monstrosity (big enough to move into) that fell on my head while spring-cleaning.

In it, I found a stack of old ID cards. As I spread them out, they evoked my journey so far. A sample:

LIBRARY CARD, circa high-school: fresh-faced, I gaze out, all straightened teeth and sparkly eyes. Pity about the perm. Yes. A perm. Shaped to my head (a moment’s silence, to reflect on just how bad that is). The card evokes water-stained taffeta dresses, an after-school job in menswear (no lovely men, just tubby grandpas needing underwear from their knees to their armpits) and holding Peter’s hand in Economics Camp.

STUDENT CARD: ca. first year college: getting lost the first day and asking directions—while standing under a sign post. Discovering that the Commerce boys on level five of the library were far cuter than the Philosophy students downstairs (and far less self-absorbed).

MEDIA PASS: ca.first job. Press pass. Hilarious job on real estate show. Saved by job in news. Terrified by news director, who taught me a lot once I stopped quaking and ducking into side rooms whenever I saw him thunder down the hallway.

EASTERN EUROPE NEWS AGENCY VISA: ca. mid-career.  Marched off for an HIV test on first day to a clinic with sticky floors. Insisted the sour old matron unpack a fresh needle in front of me. Everything in the cafeteria was suspended in aspic jelly. Wonderful adventure.

What do your ID cards say?