Editors of magazines (Anna Wintour) and newsletters (Gwenyth Paltrow) generally fill their purses with Important Things. Things like Goop™ product samples and tofu snack pods. Much like their lives, their purse-contents are aspirational for readers. Well I, too, am an editor (of a Medium publication) and today it’s my turn to reveal what I carry around in my purse.

First of all, I should probably clarify that it’s not technically a “purse.” It’s a bag made of recycled plastic that I was guilted into buying on a trip to California.

“Do you want a plastic bag?” the woman asked me at the cash register, and I knew the correct answer.

“NO!” I shouted. And then, more casually: “Ha, ha. God, no. Plastic bags are for terrorists and evolution-deniers. Please hand me that wonderful tote bag made from recycled toilet seats. The one decorated with the art of a small child.”

I proudly flaunt the bag now. It’s a statement piece, the statement being: I don’t own an actual purse for adult humans.

So what’s in my bag?

Cough drop wrappers.

A gun. Kidding. It’s a glue gun. A glue gun for my vision board because I envision a future for myself where things really stick.

What else?

Eight subway cards with approximately 12 cents each on them.

Target sunglasses, bent from having been sat on.

Yoga socks.

Trident gum of unknown vintage.

One picture of the latest Franco (Dave).

Airline snacks circa 2011 (if I ever find myself in the Hunger Games, I will survive the first round by eating these JetBlue mini-pretzels).

An olive pit.

One sock (with no yoga capabilities).

A stray CVS Extra Care card.

A fortune cookie insert with instructions on how to say “lettuce” in Chinese.

One ballpoint pen: purple, cap missing.

Three Skittles.

A hotel keycard (Cancun, 2014).

Several hundred grains of sand (Cancun, 2014).

Christmas wrapping paper.

Four pennies, stuck together.

Anna Karenina. Book. Approximate weight: nine kilograms.

A tennis ball.

A pair of rubber Wellingtons.

One cat.

This is a list of everything in my “purse” but it is also almost everything I own. I could escape the Gobi Desert with my purse. I could travel to Narnia with my purse. Is my purse heavy? Of course it’s heavy. I need extensive physical therapy just from carrying all this stuff around every day. But you know what? It’s called being a feminist. It’s called: the price you pay for being a woman.

A woman with a purse.

*Shout out to Nora Ephron (on the off-chance she’s reading) for the inspiration.