It has long-been a point of contention. Why on God’s green earth are the pockets of women’s pants — if they exist at all — so incomprehensibly tiny? As if all I needed to carry out with me was a single tube of lipstick (which, believe me, is all that fits)?
As if it were assumed I would instead rather have a purse in which to tote around the necessities: my makeup collection to keep up with appearances, a brand-name zipper wallet with movie tickets from long-lost lovers who never texted back, three types of lotion (hands, face, body) to keep my skin soft to the touch, a book on Speaking With Confidence to read on the train to avoid the creepy stare of that guy over there, a bunch of band aids for the blisters from my heels.
As if I couldn’t possibly fit all the things I “need” to be a woman in this world in my back pocket.
As if carrying around a purse didn’t make me (more) of a target to passerby.
As if carrying around a purse didn’t keep me laden with the burden of things I really don’t need.
As if carrying around a purse didn’t make me all the more conscious of the conspicuous amount of things I am supposed to need.
As if all of the things I do need to carry are supposed to be tucked together in one easily visible, easily accessible, eternally overburdened place.
As if everything valuable to me ought to be hanging off my arm, right next to the heart on my sleeve — visible, vulnerable to the whim of any bold villain who could take everything (everything I have carefully gathered into one, sacred bedazzled, brand-name womb; whether or not I believe I actually need them, whether or not they are truly mine to carry) in one, fateful, violent grab.
(As if I need another heavy thing to carry)
As if I don’t just want pockets on my pants.