This always gets me: a man with a bump in his butt because of a wallet that sits inside his trouser back pocket. Sometimes that bump is barely visible; this is when the “wallet on the butt” ailment is at it’s most tolerable. Still and all, it gets my goat. As in “cancerspeak,” I call this “the first stage.” At this point, a man may still sabotage his image and his social life that is critically hinged on it by either changing his wallet to a slimmer model; by replacing it with a money clip; or by divesting it of unnecessary credit cards, IDs, receipts and sundry junk that have probably been in there since disco music broke onto the scene. All he needs to do is reorder his priorities by asking himself what he is more attached to: his popularity with women or the deformed piece of leather, which has morphed into a tumor growing out of his butt.
Other times, said bump is as big as a planet so it appears that the man attached to the other end of this wallet has a third cheek superimposed on his butt. This is when the ailment is terminal because the leather bill container has gotten completely misshapen and bloated due to junk retention. The owner has obviously refused to change it over the years and has accumulated a truckload of things stuffed into it. This is what I refer to as the fourth stage: no amount resuscitating can revive said man’s image from here on. What he and his bloated wallet need is extreme unction.
I was having dessert at a hotel lobby with some girl friends once, when right in front of us strolled a man with a wallet-on-the-butt bump as big as a Ma Mon Luk siopao.
“Could you please stop gawking at it? He’s looking at you, looking at him, looking at his butt,” my closest friend barked at me. “Don’t worry; it’s okay,” I told her. “I’m hoping that if I stare long enough I can get the bump to disappear, you know. Never underestimate the power of suggestion.”
She didn’t find it funny. “A thick wallet means mega bucks,” was her quick comeback. “So that man could probably afford to buy you, your funky prejudices, your entire family, including your dog.”
Her college classmate, who was with us said, “What you think is a turnoff actually is the most major come-on to a woman — thick, impossibly bulky men’s wallets because they are indicative of a man’s wealth — ergo, desirability and sexy factor. Think jewelry, ‘it’ bag, travel, clothes — name it. That fat wallet that you so dislike will actually bring you joy.”
“What a curious take on the matter,” I said to her, tongue-in-cheek. “He could have a wallet as deep as Bill Gates’ but he still looks to me as though his butt has three cheeks.”
They both had a point. That man probably had money coming out of his pants — literally! But then is his ego so fragile that he has to carry all of it everywhere? Not only is it a complete turnoff; it’s a major security risk. Plus, shouldn’t he have heard of credit cards in this day and age? Or is he simply a pack rat? Eeew, a male pack rat! Hard to say which one is worse.
I wasn’t expecting a 21-year-old to have that much baggage in his wallet already. He wasn’t carrying it in his back trouser pocket, though — big saving grace! As he sat down to join everybody, he set said wallet and cell phone down on the table, which was otherwise empty. So there it was on the big wooden table, a tiny heap of black leather bursting at the seams. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. I could no longer contain my curiosity so I just came right out with it. “May I please have a look at your wallet?” He handed it over to me without any hesitation.
I combed through it, intrigued by all that lurked in there, thinking the whole time, What in heaven’s name could a man of 21have possibly accumulated in his short stint on earth? Love letters — really thick love letters? He couldn’t have possibly made his first million at that age yet? Or could he? Maybe he came upon some inheritance? But he couldn’t possibly be carrying even a fraction of it in cash in his person. Or could he?
So I looked and I looked and found a credit card or two, IDs, some cash, some receipts, scraps of paper with scribbles on it, a picture of him as a toddler with his mom, and tons of calling cards. Why? Maybe he keeps them handy just in case he needs to phone a friend — oh, I meant to say stranger… wild thought. A girl friend, Mia, who was seated to his left saw me poring over it and said, “I’m sure there’s a condom in there somewhere.” So I searched and would have been impressed if I did unearth one for his vigilance on safety. But there wasn’t any. He said, matter-of-factly, “I keep them somewhere else.” Good man.
“Why is your wallet so thick?” I asked him. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know; it just is,” he said with a bedimpled smile.
I promptly returned the wallet after close inspection and he asked why I did it. I said, “I intend to write about it one day.” He gave me a grin that was threatening to break out into a smile but which he tried to suppress. “Yeah, right,” he said. I left it at that.
Another friend, older this time (40-something), carries with him a man bag, slung over the body across the torso — something that has become known in popular culture as a “murse” (man purse). The fact that he uses one is a non-issue; he’s the type who can get away with it — manly and all. In fact, I’m so used to seeing him with it that I can’t imagine him not having one.
Asked by many why he carries one, he always answers, “Because everything I need is in there: wallet, money clip, credit card case, calling card case, sunglasses, reading glasses — everything. I’ve seen his wallet; it’s immaculate. The leather has kept its sheen because it is always kept clean. My bigger suspicion is that it never rubs against trouser fabric — or worse, jeans — so that it remains pristine. The bills inside are arranged according to denomination. There are no receipts; they are immediately filed away at work. There are no cards, IDs, or licenses; they are kept separately in their own caddies. This is the other extreme. He clearly is a neatnik.
I tease him a lot by saying, “Do you really have that much money that you need a bag to carry it around?” To which he answers, “No, my money is always inside an armored car that follows me wherever I go. I need the bag to carry the rest that can’t be rammed into the car anymore.” “Okay, got it,” I tell him. There couldn’t be a better reason than that to tote a murse.
But really, men’s wallets shouldn’t be any of a woman’s business. We should only poke our noses in one if the issue is how men carry them and how they make men look because we are the beholders, after all, and we’re big on aesthetics.
A wallet shouldn’t be a measure of a man’s wealth and spending power. It shouldn’t even be an index of what a woman may possibly extract from him. The only wallet a woman should mind, ultimately, is her own.
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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.