Earlier in the year, I visited my friend Sarah. Sarah is a good friend of mine from childhood, and we do a terrible job of keeping in touch. Instead, we typically opt for a biannual reunion either when both of us are back in Chicago or we make the more adventurous decision to see each other in out natural habitats - which at this point is New York for her and Madison for me.

Sarah works as a designer for Coach. This sounds impressive to the average onlooker but is also hilarious to anyone who knew Sarah before the age of 16. The idea that Sarah ended up working for a high-end designer is not something that was clear in the days of orange socks with sandals and multi-colored hot pink, blue, green bedroom walls accented by silver sponge shaped stars. And bangs. Thick, heavy bangs. But her taste has now changed to quirky and appropriately sophisticated, and the walls at her moderately-sized New York apartment are a classic exposed brick (thank god).

When I visited Sarah, she gifted me a one-of-a-kind, never released, Coach purse. This was a sample purse that was not picked up for the next season’s line, but it was gorgeous and Coach quality none the less. I gifted her with my presence, mainly because my job doesn’t lend its self to gifts that my friends would brag about (expect for the Marriott chocolate and mini Marriott hand lotions that I do, on occasion, give out).

Now I’ve never been one to carry nice or expensive purses mainly because I tend to abuse them, and I wouldn’t want to do that to a purse I paid a lot of money for. Shoes on the other hand, I will invest in, and then wear them to death on a 6 hour stroll across cobblestone. I don’t know why I treat these two staple pieces of a woman’s wardrobe differently, but I do.

Anyways, let’s flash forward a couple of months. I am on my way to Puerto Rico with my friend Liz and a couple of her friends for a much needed vacation. I’ve packed my standard carry-on sized suitcase for the 8 day trip and am amazed to see that the rest of my fellow travelers have brought luggage the size of what I used when I moved to Spain for six months. We spend the week at the beach, and what I quickly realize is that in their obnoxiously large suitcases, they also packed extra purses to take to the beach. I, on the other hand, am rocking the one-of-a-kind never to be made again Coach sampler. You may be asking why this is not ideal. Well, as you imagine, the beach is wet and sandy and sun screen is gross. And now, so is my purse. However, I learn my lesson on day one and learn to strategically wrap the purse in the unlimited supply of towels the resort provides us every time we head to the beach (on a separate note, being able to request a new, fresh, clean towel at my hearts desire makes me feel very luxurious).

I make it through the trip without any other purse-related debacles. However, as the second of my three flights is about to land, I begin to feel pretty significant pain in my back. I’ve been trying to lay off medication, but it feels like the right time to take a vicodin. No, I do not recreationally carry prescription pain medication on my person, but due to a pretty serious car accident a month ago I have been prescribed vicodin to be taken when I deem necessary.

And here is where I realize how big of a mess my purse really is:

1. The first issue I spot is that the vicodin has actually spilled out of it’s orange container, and is now scattered among my other possessions. Not so terrible, but…
2. The water I bought at the airport and drank 90% of as a ate Chick-Fil-A at the Atlanta airport did not have the top screwed on tightly and now the final 10% has soaked into my purse. After checking to make sure my iPhone is not damaged, I can accept even this mishap. However…
3. A three ounce Marriott hand lotion (the kind I so proudly gift) has also exploded all over everything.
4. And to top it all off, I discover I did not clean all the sand out of my purse like I originally thought.

Imagine the consistency of a wet, slimy, grainy, prescription medication. Not ideal, but I took it anyways (don’t judge). Also, after cleaning out the pills and returning them to the proper vial and wiping out the purse with a Delta blanket, I realize I have a problem, probably more than one.

To quote my friend Liz who actually did not take the opportunity to say her favorite punchline as she sat next to me and watched this mess unfold, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Sorry Sarah.