Bathroom Talk

I was stranded in line in the women's bathroom at an interstate McDonald's. Sandwiched in between a lady with a Vera Bradley bag the size of a compact car and a lady with a Coach tote that could comfortably carry a soccer team.

Coach leans past me and gushes over VB. VB unzips to show her many pockets, pouches and matching zippered wallets. Not to be outdone, Coach slides a hand over her smooth leather then deftly unzips to reveal her expandable girth.

If this isn't maddening enough a bodiless voice chimes in from a stall then sticks out a patchwork Coach hobo with pockets inside and out. Stall Number Two springs to life and a green Kate Spade combo of shoes and bag appear above and below the door along with a verbal discourse on the wonderful pockets to be found inside. There is a chorus of admiration from the hair-combing, hand lotioning, lip coloring group clustered at the sink. (OK, I'll own it; the shoes were outrageously cute and I wanted to ask where and how much...)

My mother used to warn me about bathroom talk. To be honest, I think she meant my sailor-esque language but I'm not taking any chances here. I try to stay in stealth mode.

I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb--I'm not packing a purse and I'm the only one who hasn't made a contribution to this edifying exchange. VB and Coach look expectantly my way. I wish for a Dooney & Bourke clutch or something stunningly purple from Cole Haan. Mother's warnings be damned, I rise to the occasion, dig my hands into the pockets of my jeans and pull the linings inside out.

"Wrangler. Five pockets. Two topstitched in the back, a nifty little coin pocket that's unusable but cute as hell and two deep front ones that'll hold 5 maxipads, 7 tampons and a large Hershey bar."

The sighs of envy are audible.