“I’m Not a Pocket Person” Club

I don’t like to keep things in my pockets; I never did. I appreciate pockets as a resting place for idle hands or for a good pose, but I never thought pockets were convenient for storing things like wallets, keys, cell phones. I’m like the Princess and the Pea and I feel anything and everything in any pocket.

After college, I purchased two “lady business suits” (one navy, one black) for the sole purpose of wearing them on job interviews. I assumed the blazer pockets were decorative since they were stitched up; I had no idea they were intended to be separated for real use! 

Back pockets confound me altogether. I understand men typically use them to carry their wallets, which is ridiculous. This will either stretch out the back pocket or else you have to sit on it (is lopsided butt a thing?) The back pocket is prime pocket picking locale and its usability should be left for butt enhancement only. 

My husband is a Pocket Person – exclamation point! He isn’t bothered by a bulge or a pocket stretch; instead, he delighted in the genius and convenience of a pocket! I often joke how he is a hoarder and he rebuts with how he is a collector, but we both agree he is a stuff lover and pockets allow him to tote his stuff wherever he goes; pockets are permanently attached mini luggage! 

My husband’s pockets earn their own zip code. As a professional clown, even his costume mimics his pocket-loving persona. Brightly colored pockets account for 25% of the pants real-estate.

It’s one thing when the clown pulls out endless pranks from his pocket, it’s expected. In New York City, a clown doesn’t have a clown car, but he can have clown pockets! But when the red nose stays at home, a different set of goodies fill his pockets. I never look in his pockets because after almost twelve years, it’s still magical. His pockets are a wonder to behold, a unique mysticism to him. 

The first year we were together, we walked and talked through dozens of miles around Manhattan. Amidst the concrete, the glare, the lights, the stench, the energy, our love bloomed, leaving breadcrumbs of memories all over the neighborhoods. Along these walks, my husband would pull things out of his pockets at the perfect moment. A hat when it got cold, a pocket-sized umbrella (or poncho!) during a surprise rainstorm, a pack of peanut m&m’s when we’re starving and can’t settle on a place to eat.

Contents of his pockets were originally clues of life before me; now they give me a glimmer of his time when he’s away from me. A microcosm reveals itself from his life souvenirs: the weird sucking candy he only gets at the camera store, a pack of ripped-up plastic photo filters, random business cards, extra sunglasses, a promotional hat, an expired MetroCard, a pen, a small notebook covered in stickers, a copy of the Alchemist he found on the steps of a brownstone, a Sharpie, a small plastic dinosaur, a box of sour worms.

I find this quality charming and am thoroughly grateful for it. His love for pockets matches my hate for them. Which leads me to the biggest bonus of all: on a hot summer day, when I want to leave my purse in the car, he will fill his pockets with my wallet, keys, and cellphone allowing  my “just-for-him” jean shorts to hug me in all of his favorite places free from back pocket bulge. We call this a win-win.

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