JANUARY 13, 2025 – Against the backdrop of the latest news stories, not to mention the many chronic conditions that plague our species, I feel a bit ridiculous writing about something as ordinary and unimportant as pockets; not air pockets or pockets of wealth or poverty or resistance but your basic pocket-pockets, as associated with shirts, trousers, jackets and carrying cases.
I’ve long had issues with pockets of the ordinary kind, and one good reason for maintaining this blog is to give myself a chance to rant and vent occasionally over such things as, well, pockets.
My longest standing source of frustration in this regard has been a leather briefcase/computer bag that my wife gave me as a birthday present years ago. From the outside, it’s a wonderfully wonkish appearing laptop/briefcase. I’ll never forget the woman at an airport who went out of her way to compliment me for my good taste in briefcases. The setting was the waiting area at a departure gate.
From where she sat, she saw me approach, briefcase slung over my shoulder, and a moment after I’d sat down five rows beyond her, she rose and walked over my way. “Excuse me,” she said, “but where did you get that computer bag?”
“Oh, uh, thanks,” I said. “My wife bought it for me as a present. I don’t know where she got it. Pedro’s luggage in downtown St. Paul, back in Minnesota maybe? I’m not sure.”
“Well, she certainly has good taste,” the woman said, “and apparently so do you for using it.”
I thanked her for the remarks and told her I’d pass on to my wife the compliment that pertained to her.
What’s important to know is that the subject briefcase appeared on that day very much as it had when it was brand new.
I was therefore shocked when at the outset of a joint trip not long after above-described airport scene, my wife denigrated that same briefcase. “You’re not taking that, are you?” she said when taking stock of my luggage while we waited for a cab to the airport. “It looks terrible.”
“But you gave it to me,” I said in protest.
“I did? No, I didn’t!”
“You sure did.”
“No way.”
I then told her (for the first time) about the compliment I recounted above.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Beth. “It’s an ugly briefcase.”
“But I can fit a lot into it, which makes it great for carry-on.”
Before our next flight, Beth bought me a replacement briefcase—a nice, lighter weight black canvas bag with attractive fittings.
I took two more trips with the leather bag before I switched to the canvas briefcase. It wasn’t because of appearances and pressure from Beth, however. What finally forced the ugly-to-Beth but beautiful-to-me leather briefcase into early retirement were the pockets—all 11 of them. The truth was, what I liked most about that bag was the same feature that I hated most about it: all the compartments, which were as great for storing stuff as they were for losing the same stuff. How many times had I jammed something into a front pocket, back pouch, intermediate cavity, zippered compartment, et cetera, then forgetten which of the 11 possibilities I’d selected? How often had I used the leather briefcase as a holding place for just about everything of any importance? Worse were all the heart attacks triggered by a frantic search through 10 pockets—in vain—since I’d forgotten all about the “secret” pocket on the backside of the briefcase.
Nice in concept but nearly ruinous in application, the wonderfully wonky leather briefcase was simply not compatible with my stashing habits. I decided it was time to cashier the old satchel.
About the time I sent the briefcase into retirement because of the pockets, I acquired a new winter jacket. We were in New York at the time, and after a streak of mild weather, an arctic blast swept down from . . . you guessed it: the arctic. I was without appropriate outer apparel for such conditions, so was led by Beth and my sister Jenny to Uniqlo inside Hudson Yards down on West 33rd. There I was shown umpteen styles of coats and jackets in eleventeen shades of green, gray, black and brown. I narrowed my search to the green jackets beyond the racks of more formal winter overcoats, since a perfectly acceptable one was hanging in our front hall closet back home. I widened my heavier jacket options by diverting for a few minutes to the weightless down jacket selections. My thought was to buy one of those down jackets that you can crush down to the size of a pocket-package of Kleenex and wear it as an independent liner in especially cold conditions. This diversion, of course, led to a gazillion more choices in color and style.
You’re fantasizing if you think I was enjoying this process. At the age of 70, however, I understood that untoward consequences could ensue if I dropped to the floor, pounded the carpet with my fists and screamed, “I hate shopping! I wanna go home! Boo hoo!” No. I sucked it up, as if I were a rough and tough New Yorker. For the next 45 minutes I maintained my focus and composure. After receiving style approvals from Beth and Jenny, I followed them to the check-out area. From there I walked out of the store wearing both the down jacket “liner” and the far more substantial dark olive outer jacket—with an integrated hood and . . . LOTS OF DEEP POCKETS.
It didn’t take long, however, before my phone, wallet, hat and gloves were lost—somewhere among all those deep pockets, some zippered, others latched with Velcro, others still secured by snaps, and more yet covered with flaps. While we’d been walking to the escalators and on to the food court, I’d been transferring my belongings from my old jacket and my trouser pockets to all compartments aboard the new jacket, inside and out.
In all the commotion, time, not order, had been of the essence. When we sat down to eat, I was a model of the Unorganized Man. I came within two or three synapses of asking Beth to call me so I could locate my phone—among all the jacket pockets. Fortunately, just then I received a text, which triggered a “beep,” revealing the pocket to which the phone had been randomly assigned. I thus avoided the need to advertise what might well have been construed as early onset of a rare form of dementia marked by severe confusion. Also, just before it was time to bundle up against that arctic blast outside, I managed to locate my hat and gloves. I had no idea which of the zippered pockets contained my wallet, but until we found shelter from the cold, I wasn’t about to remove my gloves to conduct the search, only to lose the gloves (again) in another pocket.
It took me several days to locate all the pockets inside and outside that jacket. I say “all” without confidence. Just this afternoon I discovered another well-camouflaged pocket on an inside panel of the jacket.
So far, however, on our way out of our house my wife hasn’t said of the Coat of Many Pockets, “You’re not wearing that are you? It looks terrible!” and I haven’t had to say, “But you approved it at Uniqlo,” saving her the need to say, “I did? No, I didn’t.”
Finally, I shouldn’t complain too much about pockets—especially deep ones. Remember the mention of my formal winter overcoat in our front hall closet? I bought it years ago in a local men’s store that featured high quality threads. The coat was nice looking and on sale. Back in the day it gave me the appearance of being more stylish than I actually was, so I wore the coat every (winter) day to work and more formal social engagements. What I couldn’t stand about it, however, were the two very shallow pockets. They weren’t large enough to hold a hat, gloves, or even a car fob, securely, at least. They were good only for my bare hands folded up in very tight fists.
Okay. My pocket rant is over. You (and I) can resume our despair over the latest news headlines. Perhaps soon we’ll find between the lines . . . pockets of hope.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
