Sitting with my daughter at church, I watched with amusement as she set her phone on her lap. In a matter of minutes, the inevitable happened and it slid off onto the floor. This is why I insist on Otterboxes. All of my girls drop their phones constantly… Constantly!
While she blushed and picked it up, three questions came to mind.
- Why did you have to bring your phone into church?
- Why did you act surprised?
- Why didn’t you just put it in your pocket?
My phone was safely nestled in the fold of my pants pocket. It couldn’t go far and there was no chance of dropping it. That answers one question but doesn’t answer the question of why I felt the need to bring it into the building. I certainly wouldn’t risk angering God by looking at it during the sermon and pretending that I had opened a Bible app – He knows you’re checking Facebook! The social media gurus debate why posts from 9 to noon on Sunday get no traction. The answer is easy – they are cursed by God because you are either in church or should be.
So I leaned over and whispered instructions, “Put it in your pocket!”
She gave me one of those trademark DASS (Dad’s-Are-So-Stupid) looks and replied, “I can’t.”
I gave her a blank, unknowing stare (which validated her DASS look) and asked, “Why?”
“Girl pockets,” she answered and stuck a hand in her pocket to demonstrate. Well, she stuck her fingers up to the second knuckle into her pocket because that’s all that would fit.
That’s right. I couldn’t listen to the rest of the sermon because I was now shocked. As it turns out, the pockets on girl’s jeans are tiny, barely large enough for chapstick or keys. I had no idea. All this time, I’ve lived in a man-pocketed world where I can put my whole hand inside. I can look cool like James Dean or uncomfortable like Napoleon Dynamite – but the point is, I have pocket choices.
When I was a boy, I could use them for a seemingly infinite amount of storage. Mine always had gum, a ball with string from a paddle ball game, at least six rocks, a three-leaf clover that I had split a leaf of to lie and say it was four, and thirteen baseball cards on average. Sometimes my pet frog, Brutus would travel with me – but I would move the clover because I was afraid he would eat it. The rest of my family took time to groom before leaving the house, I just had to load my pockets.
Why can’t jean manufacturers spare a few more inches of fabric for girls? What would that cost in bulk, maybe 2 cents per pair? Have profit margins gotten so lean that they can’t eek out a couple of pennies so a girl can carry more than a dime in her pants?
Then I remembered the trend in shorts from the summer. Girls were wearing hoochie mama shorts with pockets that hung out the bottom. It dawned on me that they simply made a mistake at the factory! Daisy Duke got the long pockets and the jeans got shorted and it caught on in some backward, fashion trend way so every manufacturer followed suit. Someone has to right this wrong with internet protests and a letter writing campaign!
Forget Pay Equity. Women need pockets! We need to demand Jeander Equality!
I became indignant! Incensed! Outraged!
In the height of my anger I heard an “Amen” and church was over. Anger faded to hunger with an overwhelming need for football and a recliner. All of my denim angst melted away before we made it to the car as I dreamt of nachos and salsa…
mmm – salsa.
Dads are so stupid…