Memory Monday: Pocket Pack

I will now bring up a very painful childhood memory.

This memory still leaves me in a state of terror and slight embarrassment, yet I'm finding it in me to get the word out. People need to know about this for their own safety.

This is the day I learned that external pockets are dangerous.

When I was about seven, I used to have this awesome outfit with Keroppi (the Hello Kitty frog) on it.

I don't have a picture... but the pants were mint green and had this cute litte pocket on the outside with Keroppi's face on it. It's sort of hard to describe... but it was a pocket that tied to the outside of the pants. Kind of like a fanny pack/pocket hybrid. It was a fanny pocket. No... a pocket pack. I like that better, we'll call it that.

Little did I know that that pocket pack would cause me to be brutally attacked later that day.

It started out as a bright, happy summer's day. I went to a friend's birthday party, made some place mats, jumped on a trampoline, then went back to my grandparents' house. Things were looking up until I went to play in the back yard.

At that epoch my grandparents had just adopted a giant golden retriever named Russel. Russel was a really sweet dog that was good with kids... but even though he was huge, he was still in his "playful puppy" phase. And that day, something happened. I blame the pocket pack.

Russel to that pocket pack was like a bull to a red cape. Some sort of barbaric force was unleashed within him and his rabid fangs clamped on to my pocket pack. He started tugging me around the yard with an unyielding resolve.

Of course, I went with the most sensible solution.
I screamed my freaking head off.

Seriously, it sounded like I was being murdered. And maybe I was. I didn't know why else he'd be pulling me towards the back of the shed.

My desperate cries for help did no good. I was frantically searching for an idea, when I remembered something important: pants are removable.

Without giving it a second thought, I removed the beloved trousers I was ensnared in, and made a run for my freedom.

When I got to the door, pantsless and sobbing pathetically, my mom and grandma were standing right there. Where were they?! Why didn't they do something?! I remember feeling a little indignant at first, but I was just glad that I escaped with my life.

So beloved blog readers, I urge you: NEVER. Wear. Pocket. Packs. Or fanny packs, for that matter. It's not worth your pride.

This has been a message from the founder of C.A.P.P. (Civilians Against Pocket Packs.)