Always read the fine print
with enough time to act.
Underneath the headliner
and the opening act
and the date
and the time
and the seat number
in tiny font, the arena declares:
"Strict No Bag Policy
Wallets of no more than 4" by 6" allowed."
I grind my molars, growl.
First they come for our pockets,
now they come for our pocketbooks.
The Patriarchy must fall!
I waste an hour scouring
the backs and upper shelves of closets
unearthing off-season storage boxes
palpating dark depths of wardrobe drawers
and of all that I turn up,
nothing comes close
to being four inches by six inches.
Everything I own is far bigger,
and therefore useful and forboden,
or far smaller, and therein
both legal and without function.
And I don't want a wristlet.
I don't wish to have a heavy wallet
thwacking against my arm
every time I jump for joy
at the next banger song on the set list.
I want a crossbody bag.
Big enough for my tissues
for my external battery bank
and my charging cord
for my cough drops
and ear plugs
and lip balm
and saucy red lipstick
and my I.D.
and my credit cards
and my emergency cash
and my ballpoint pen
and my travel notebook
and my car keys
and my allergy-friendly snack bar
and my hand sanitizer
and my mace.
But these creature comforts,
and my wellbeing both,
bystanders caught in the crossfire
of security theatre.
This venue knows,
it must,
that their clientele
will show up to a pop concert
in babydoll dresses
and tiny skirts
and micro hem hot shorts
none of which come standard with cargo pockets.
At my desk, I cut out a piece of paper
to the specifications on the warning.
I lay it on the table,
alongside my phone.
My iphone won't fit inside a wallet this size.
My ballpoint pen is longer.
My lip liner out-lengths the length;
my purse-sized micro notebook out-widths it.
I'm going to have to buy a micro pouch
specifically for this one outing
and it's not even going to suit my needs.
I'll have to spend more money,
and lose my emotional support items.
A Female tax, this chafes of sexism.
I pick up my oversize phone:
with another grunt and an eyeroll,
I navigate to the Big Overlord app
where I spend another ninety minutes
scrolling, measuring, reading reviews
until I find a wallet on a cross-body strap
for twenty bucks
that can be overnighted to my house
in time for me to over-stuff
the zippered wallet to wear once.
Depleted, resigned,
I click "Buy Now"
as I sell out, fold, to The Man.
