Keeping a Purple Can Opener in My Work Bag Every Single Day
It’s a small can opener, the kind with short arms and a turning knob that’s a little stiff until it isn’t. The handles are purple in a way that doesn’t try to be anything else. Not muted, not bright enough to be cheerful, just plainly purple. It looks like it belongs in a kitchen drawer next to takeout menus and rubber bands, not in a work bag next to a laptop and a notebook.
It ended up there because of one of those small inconveniences that sticks longer than it should. A couple weeks ago I brought soup for lunch, one of those cans with no tab. I remember standing in the break room, turning it in my hands, checking twice like maybe I’d missed the obvious. There was a church key in a drawer but it bent the lid and made a mess, and I ate it anyway, a little annoyed in a quiet way that follows you back to your desk.
That night I put the opener in my bag so I wouldn’t think about it again. That’s usually how things get added. Not because they’re essential, just because I don’t want to deal with the same small friction twice.
For the first few days, I was aware of it every time I zipped the bag. It sat awkwardly along the bottom, not flat, pressing up against the side like it wanted its own space. When I set the bag down, it would roll a little and settle with a soft plastic knock against my charger. It didn’t belong, but it also didn’t bother me enough to take it out.
Then it did what most things do. It disappeared into the background. I stopped feeling it, stopped thinking about it. I carried it through a week of sandwiches and leftovers that didn’t need opening. If you’d asked me what was in my bag, I probably wouldn’t have mentioned it.
The funny part is that I don’t carry it in my pocket. That would feel ridiculous. It’s not shaped for that, and there’s a point where you stop pretending something fits your daily movement. But in the bag, it gets a pass. Bags are where we put the things we’re not fully committed to but aren’t ready to let go of either.
Every once in a while, it earns its place. Someone in the office brings in a can of something for a shared lunch and realizes there’s no opener around. Or I forget what I packed and it turns out to be another can, and this time I don’t have to improvise. I take it out, turn the knob, hear that clean puncture and the steady bite of the wheel, and for a moment it feels like a small, quiet win. Nothing dramatic, just the absence of annoyance.
Afterward, it goes back into the bag, slightly damp if I rinsed it, or wrapped in a napkin if I didn’t have time. That part is less satisfying. It’s one more thing that isn’t quite clean, not quite dirty, living among cables and papers. I notice it then, in a way I don’t when it’s just dead weight.
I’ve taken it out a few times. Usually on a Sunday when I’m emptying the bag and shaking out crumbs and old receipts. It sits on the counter, looking more at home there, and I tell myself I don’t need to carry it. Most days I don’t. The next morning the bag feels lighter, a little cleaner inside.
And then a few days later, something small goes wrong again. Not even the same problem. Maybe it’s a stubborn lid, or I’m packing lunch and I see another can and don’t want to think about it. The opener goes back in almost without deciding.
It’s not a permanent part of anything. It doesn’t have a designated pocket or a routine check like keys or a wallet. It drifts in and out depending on how recently I’ve been annoyed by not having it. The purple makes it easy to spot when I’m digging around, which might be the most practical thing about it.
There’s a point where you realize a lot of what you carry isn’t about being prepared for everything. It’s just about remembering the last time something felt slightly harder than it needed to be, and nudging your day so it won’t happen the same way again. Sometimes that nudge sticks. Sometimes it ends up on the kitchen counter for a week.
This morning, I left it in the bag without thinking about it. I’ll probably forget it’s there until I don’t.