I confess I have a thing for pockets. Sure, there is such a thing as too many pockets, because then I forget which one I stashed my stuff in. The problem is that I always have stuff to stash. The amount waxes and wanes, but I’ve never understood how anyone can go out without nary an object with them.
When I was younger, at first the girls without purses confused me. Where did they put their brush, and other female accessories? Then I realized: pockets! That’s where!
This year I acquired a hood with one of those giant pockets in the front. For a girl who is always stuffing things in pockets, the hoodie is the pinnacle of pocket perfection. I could, if needed, fit an entire cat in that pocket. No, I don’t normally stuff my cats into pockets, but one never knows when one might have to carry a cat.
I was musing upon the comfy warm pocket power of my hoodie when I remembered my very first hoodie. Technically, it was a sweatshirt with a large front pocket, as it had no hood. It originally belonged to my mother, but shrank in the dryer, so she passed it along to me to wear around the house during winter. Red, comfy, and possessing a giant pocket, it was my favorite winter wardrobe item. At the end of the day it was rather like opening a treasure box when I emptied the pocket of all manner of things I’d stashed during the day.
No, it is not at all figure flattering to look as if one is expecting a lumpy child or that I’m channeling my inner kangaroo, but I doubt I cared about that at age eight either. It seems I have come full circle.