Pockets

So, another pair of gym shorts bit the dust. 

 

I'm not too sad, because I never really liked that pair.  They're orange, so, um, yeah.  Maybe they're a dark peach rather than orange, but still not a color I would choose to wear on my lower half under normal circumstances.  I think I got them off a clearance rack years ago for a great price.  A really great price.

 

One of the reasons I wore them, despite their color, was that they had pockets. 

 

I'm not sure what it is with women's clothes designers and pockets, or lack thereof, but, hello!  We all have phones to carry around now, in addition to everything else we've ever needed to carry around, so a pocket would be nice.  Who wants to carry a purse around at the gym?  Without a purse hanging off the shoulder, we already have enough things banging around threatening to knock us out as we do our high-intensity moves.

 

As this pair's back seam finally wore out--and, yeah, that's not a pretty look, I tossed them out on laundry day and set out to replace them.  I only have enough pairs of gym shorts (that fit) to get through a week, and, as this was one of only two pairs I own with pockets, I wanted to purchase a replacement pair with pockets.  Maybe not orange, though.

 

So, as I was driving past Target, anyway, I went in and started looking through 1432 pairs of  women's gym shorts with no pockets.

 

At first glance, I thought it was a garden gnome that had popped up next to the rack.  "Do you have a Smart Phone?" she asked. 

 

My mind raced.  I mean, I do, but why would she need to know that?  Did she need to borrow the phone?  Had it dropped out of my purse?  Then I noticed her red shirt and name tag.  She was an employee.

 

While she rattled on about some app I could get that would download tons of junk mail every Sunday and save me a lot of money, I continued flipping through pocketless shorts. 

 

"Do you have any with pockets?" I asked her when she paused for breath.  I hadn't asked for help, or bargains, but, if she was going to stand there trying to help me, I might as well clue her in on what I wanted.

 

"Try the men's," she said.

 

That didn't set well with me.  The orange shorts had certainly not been men's wear.  I wanted to find a pair of women's gym shorts with pockets.  So, I kept looking. 

 

Meanwhile, the Target gnome pulled my daughter aside to tell her, "This section is for people to shop in who are really active."  She buzzed back near me long enough to say, "I didn't realize you run." 

 

Huh?  I thought.  My daughter told me what she had said to her.  I stared at her in disbelief.  "She thinks I'm too fat to shop here?" 

 

My daughter looked miserable.  "I wasn't sure if I should tell you or not, but then she said that."  She added, "I said, 'She runs several miles a week.'"

 

Bless her heart.  That daughter is a keeper.  We headed off to the men's shorts.  Where I discovered that men have pockets--yes, every single one of the men's shorts had pockets--but men have no hips.  I tried some on and grumbled, "Maybe I am too fat to shop here."  But, then, I remembered the hips thing.  I was still okay!

 

"How does she think I'm going to get less fat if I can't buy gym shorts?" I asked.

 

The thing is, this woman was fatter than I am.  That reminds me.  When I was younger and people asked me on a regular basis if I was pregnant or when I was due, I noticed that the women who asked me always seemed to have larger tummies than I had.  If they were trying to make a comment about my weight, weren't they also commenting on their own weight?  Anyway, I never got that.

 

The last time someone decided I was too fat for my clothing was one Christmas Eve when my former mother-in-law handed me a nice, big Christmas bag with the words, "This one's yours."  I had felt the weight of something substantial in the bag and thanked her, then set it under the tree.

 

Later that afternoon, I saw the same bag sitting empty in a chair.  I asked my husband, "What happened to my Christmas present?"  Which prompted him to begin a speech that sounded nothing like anything he had ever said before in his life.

 

"Well, upon reflection, she realized it wasn't appropriate. . . ."

 

"She thinks I'm too fat for it?!" I had realized in horror. 

 

My husband had looked miserable.

 

"What was it?" I asked.

 

"A coat."

 

"Well, geez," I'd said.  "I just had a baby.  Can't I handle either losing the baby weight or taking the coat back myself?  Does she have to make that decision for me?"

 

That year, I didn't eat a bite of my Christmas candy until February, when an injury put me in the same room with it day and night for weeks.  (I'd hidden it in my clothes hamper.)

 

But nothing, not even a bargain basement gnome with no customer service skills, is going to keep me from wearing those men's gym shorts. Because, pockets.