My wife recently had a purse emergency.

We were staying at a hotel in a distant city when she noticed that her current purse was, as she put it, “shot.” I examined the thing and told her that that it seemed perfectly functional to me.

“Men!” she exclaimed. “They don’t notice anything unless it involves a souped-up V-8 engine or a curvy figure!”

After all these years of marriage, I’ve learned that it’s best not to argue with my wife. Especially when she’s right.

She pointed at a particular spot on her purse. “See?” she asked, “It’s falling apart! My purse is shot!”

The spot that she indicated was a small area where some of her purse’s purple outer layer had flaked off. It was slightly unsightly, but not enough, in my opinion, to warrant being tossed out. If “slightly unsightly” was the basis of her judgment, I would have been relegated to the dumpster long ago.

I pondered the situation and quickly came up with a couple of helpful, money-saving suggestions.

“You could go to the store and buy a purple marker and use it to camouflage the areas that have flaked off,” I said. “And I’ve used duct tape to repair a lot of things around the farm. Duct tape comes in several different colors. I bet there’s one that would pretty much match your purse.”

She fixed me with her patented “you idiot” look and proceeded to dig through the contents of her purse. I’m always amazed at how much stuff my wife can stuff into her handbag. There are normal items such as keys, Kleenex, and the checkbook, but her purse also contains a vast assortment of pens and enough scratch paper to write a novel. Somewhere in the depths of her purse is a medical kit that’s so comprehensive it could be used for thoracic surgery.

“You never know when someone will do something stupid,” she explained when I once asked about the medical kit.

“But our two boys left the nest years ago,” I replied.

“Who said that I was talking about the boys?” she asked, glancing at me meaningfully.

My wife’s purse fervor developed gradually. When we first met she carried her stuff in a dainty little accessory called a clutch. It held the essentials, including her driver’s license, some cash, and a makeup compact that was the size of a silver dollar.

Things changed radically once we had kids. We couldn’t go anywhere without a bag that contained such items as diapers, baby wipes, formula, bottles, and two changes of clothing (one for the child, one for its caretaker). The diaper bag held enough stuff to supply a small army.

The contents of the diaper bag evolved as our kids grew. Formula, wipes, and bottles were replaced by such essentials as a jug of insect repellant, a Ziploc bag of Pop-tarts, and a first aid kit that would be the envy of an EMT crew.

Inertia is probably the cause of my wife’s packed purse problems. Once she became accustomed to carrying around a bag that could hold a blacksmithing anvil it was difficult to go back to a simple little clutch.

I have long been an observer of the human species. One of the questions I’ve pondered has been how old a girl has to be before she needs a purse.

The answer seems to be “as soon as she can hold one.” I’ve seen toddlers who can barely walk carrying small, smart-looking, color-coordinated purses.

Why would such a tiny tot need a purse?

This question was answered when I observed a little girl walking across a parking lot while holding onto her daddy’s pinky finger.

The little girl suddenly stopped and picked up something off the ground. And there was the answer: she needed a purse to hold all the pretty pebbles she found in parking lots.

When I asked my wife why females seem to be so preoccupied with purses she replied, “It’s because a lot of women’s clothing doesn’t have pockets.”

This struck me as totally backwards. Being female requires far more resources than being male. Women’s apparel should have pockets on every available surface. They should be the clothing equivalent of library file cabinets but without the Dewey Decimal System.

My wife soon acquired a new handbag and proceeded to perform a purse transplant right there in front of me. I couldn’t watch.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Why do you look so pale?”

“I’m sorry, but I get squeamish at the sight of purse innards.”

“Men are such wimps!” she muttered.

I never argue with my wife, especially when she’s right.

— Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at http://Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.