How to Use a Clutch

My brilliant and talented daughter was married last weekend.  Whereas I had been the type of needle-worker that would attempt to precisely copy a pattern and still end up with arms of two different lengths, my daughter made her wedding dress.

 And flowers for the Bridal Party.

 Also, in what I have determined to be a lifelong obsession with getting me to use a smaller pocketbook, she made me what I have learned is called a clutch.  As in you can't let go of it or it will fall to the floor.

I know, it is beautiful.  But this is what I have carried around for the last decade or so:

You can carry a laptop around in it, or if you choose not to, it will hold nearly everything else you might think you need.  I have been challenging people for years to ask me for something they need and see if I am not carrying it.  After agonizing over its not looking classy enough to carry for my son's Harvard Commencement, and thinking about all the things I would have to carry along with a smaller purse, I just decided I would have to risk being mocked by the elite and was glad for it.

But the clutch was beautiful.  And Antoinette looked so excited when I opened the gift.  And she set me up by saying, "I thought I should give this to you before the wedding so you could wear it."

What was I to do?  I considered what would fit into it, folded up the pages on which I had printed my reading, carefully worked it in and then took it out because it was too big.  Then I neatly stacked a dozen neatly folded tissues which I could pull out individually during the ceremony.  And, well, that was it.  I thought I'd leave my other bag in the trunk of the car.

My daughter had bought a nice enough clutch online.  It was larger and less delicate than mine, and she stuffed as much as she could into it, had one of her bridesmaids help her close it, and we headed to the elevator, en route to what I understand they call "first look," the photo session wherein the groom gets to glimpse the bride before the ceremony in order to take pictures, but they have to do it in stages and when they are photographed together pretend it hasn't actually happened.

In the elevator, running late, the bride realized she hadn't left her room key with the bridesmaids, and then that she couldn't call them to tell them because she had left her phone in the room.  While she was in the midst of this process of discovery, items began to fall out of the clutch, even before she accidentally turned it upside down.

After that was settled, and in the car on the way to the photo session, she realized that her phone wouldn't fit in the clutch, and got a bit snappy with me when I attempted to suggest things that she could remove that she absolutely had to have.  Finally, with great dramatic insight, she said something to the effect of, "Oh, fuck this, I can't use this thing," and removed the items that had been stuffed into the clutch and threw them into the full sized pocketbook that had been sitting empty in the back seat.

I believe there must be a god whose sole purpose is to prevent weddings from happening.  This is why things go wrong in the days leading up to the event at a rate that cannot be explained by logic or statistics, and the things that go wrong increase in size and number as the moment draws near.  This is also why, if you make it to the actual ceremony, everything from then on is perfect.

So when we got to the Arboretum, which in Illinois in June had actual flowers recently planted and in bloom, and which flowers had not been ripped out by the recent wind and torrential rains, it stood to reason that the rain that had been predicted for two hours after the ceremony instead was imminent and at that moment being heralded by thunder.

Frantic calls, to proceed to Plan B and then to let others know.  A drive to drop off the bride at the amazing Orpheum Children's Theater, where the reception was to be held, now also to be the setting for the ceremony itself.  And a crazed run to the hotel to change and pick up father-of-the-bride.

Which is how I ended up with an exquisite clutch with neatly folded tissues and a few pages in hand for my reading, and, under my seat, my trusted carry-all, which held camera, envelopes with tips for staff, and ended up carrying gift envelopes.

I did "carry" the clutch, but mostly it sat at the table under my camera case, because you can't hold it and carry drinks and hors d'heuvres, or carry it and take pictures, or even carry it and dance.

I thought that I might, for the next very special occasion, take a big safety pin out of my all-purpose bag, fasten it to my dress and wear it as a brooch.