KRiSTOPHER DUKES LLC plastic money, Ms. Dukes’ plastic money. KRiSTOPHER DUKES LLC debit, a girl named Kristopher’s debit. Old press club pass, which I promise I don’t keep ‘cause I’ve waved it, “Freelance, forgot to RSVP,” and skipped hour-long lines before.  Health care ID, which I do keep ‘cause health and vanity are happily married in my world of SPF 45 for porcelain skin and jogging to keep twiggy. Add some paper printed by Uncle Sammy, a Cali license to weave in and out of lanes at 50 mph plus,  and you begin to understand the filing cabinet that is your K’s choco croco wallet.

Which I’m ready to chuck, for Steinhausen’s sleeky chic Money Grip.

‘Cause life’s much too short not to rock light as possible, to have to fumble with some clumsy thing when you could slip something slim, handsome, and smart in your jeans’ back pocket.

Which reminds me:

Time to lose the boy.