Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) 📕

a quick fix from sewing kits to stain wipes to every kind of tampon manufactured in North America designed to staunch any flow from spotty to tsunami.

Because I pack my purse for my own eventualities, my emergency supplies are a little more personalized. For example, I’m never without at least one extra string of pearls, earrings, and a bracelet. Because I’m concerned about squint lines [Botox can do only so much, you know.] I always carry a spare set of contact lenses, eyedrops, and at least two pair of sunglasses. Depending on what kind of hair day I’m having, I can simply smooth out my tresses with the brush, yank it back in a ponytail holder, tame an unruly bit with bobby pins, get more sun on my face via pearl-adorned or tortoiseshell headbands, or coax my bangs back into shape with a single pink Velcro curler.

My smile’s guaranteed to look its best due to ample supplies of floss, gloss, balm, liner, and three shades of lipstick, which I apply depending on my mood and state of my tan. Should I want longer eyelashes, I have lengthener mascara and if I want them thicker, I have thickening. Although I hope the circumstances never arise, I’m also carrying enough concealer to camouflage a black eye or blemish up to and including the size of Mount Vesuvius.

Do I keep sparkle powder on hand?

Oh, honey, please.

Do you prefer iridescent pink or shimmering gold?

In more practical terms, I never need to make awkward conversation in a long line at Costco because I can busy myself with my iPhone, iPad, [Complete with earphones.] and fully charged Kindle e-reader.

Should my feet get cold, I have a spare pair of socks and if I ever find myself in shoes that aren’t one hundred percent comfortable, I’m packing Band-Aids, anti-rub blister stick, and the cutest little black bow-topped ballerina flats that not only match everything I own but also curl up to the size of a Honeycrisp apple.

My Leatherman tool allows me to open wine bottles, turn screws, snip wires, and, if needed, cut a bitch. [To this point, I’ve only used it for wine, though.] I can start fires with my matchbook and cure anything from anxiety to acid reflux to shoulders strained by lugging too much with my ample pharmaceutical stock. I can even secure all the items in my bag with my ever-present gym lock!

On top of the extras, I port the basics, too, like credit cards, writing devices including at least one Sharpie in case anyone wants an autograph, [So far no one’s wanted one, but when they do, I’ll be all over it!] a checkbook, a compact, a handkerchief, and four kinds of nail polish.

Ironically, I never seem to have more than about eight dollars of cash on me, but that’s not the point.

The point is we like to be ready. I suspect this compulsion stems from when we were unemployed and practically destitute back when the dot-com market crashed. We were caught at such unawares that we vowed to never be taken by surprise again. I mean, if you’ve ever dined on a faux pizza made with stale hamburger buns, tomato paste, and nonfat mozzarella cheese because that’s all you have, you never, ever forget it.

And now, while this whole author thing seems to be at least semipermanent, I’ve yet to get rid of the clothes I wore when I worked temp jobs because my perpetual state of “what if” never permits me to let down my guard.

I liken us to the older generations who lived through the Depression. No matter how good and bountiful their lives are now, they can’t forget what it was like to want or need. Because of that, they stockpile resources. Grandma Daisy isn’t showing signs of senility when she cans every wormy peach she plucks off the tree before her driver drops her off for lunch at the country club; she’s hedging her bets.

Fletch’s preparedness veers more towards the dramatic. He believes the eventualities for which we might prepare are a bit more apocalyptic. Maybe it’s his military training or perhaps he watches too much it’s-the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it Discovery Channel programming. But for whatever reason, he’s concerned a major catastrophe will occur in our lifetime. When it happens, he assures me we’ll be all over it.

Bless his tinfoil-hat-wearing heart.

As soon as we moved to the suburbs, Fletch converted our basement to a veritable army surplus store. Tucked between plastic tubs of ancient sorority sweatshirts and framed photos of me from a spectacularly big-haired [And small-assed. Sigh.] time period, Fletch has been squirreling away everything from water purification tablets to Arctic weather–grade sleeping bags.

He promises nothing will catch us off guard. Like, if a riot breaks out on the mean streets of Lake Forest? Perhaps in the main square by J. Crew or the Talbots? Across from the farmer’s market where they sell those magnificent heirloom tomatoes? Then his grenade simulators will disperse any crowd!

Chemical attack? No worries! Fletch’s premeasured sheets of window-sealing plastic and industrial-strength duct tape are located on the shelf marked Zombie War next to the box containing my Christmas nativity scene. (He’s very helpfully drawn an arrow towards his arsenal, so I won’t confuse his thousand rounds of ammo with the Baby Jesus figurine.)

And if the Russians ever invade à la Red Dawn, trust me when I say it will be Fletcher shouting, “Wolverines!” and leading the counterattack.

If being prepared is a virtue, then he’s Mother-freaking-Teresa.

Like I said, we pride ourselves on being ready for whatever happens next.

Or so we thought.

We’re upstairs having post-dinner ice cream [Try Graeter’s Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip—you’ll thank me.] and watching White Collar when I notice the sky has turned the same shade of purple as my dessert.

“That doesn’t seem right,” I comment.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Fletch replies, eyes fixed to the screen. I suspect someone may have a big boy crush on Tiffani (formerly Amber) Thiessen. [Oh, Kelly Kapowski, your legacy lives on.] “Besides, if the weather were really