By Elissa Caterfino Mandel

Lockers are painful for me, and not because they bring back awful memories of sitting on the dusty floor of the high school gym waiting patiently to be the last one to be picked for the volleyball team. Every time I create a locker code, it’s as if I’m transported back to my other worst moments in high school, and I end up standing and spinning the dial like it’s some kind of non-winning roulette wheel. It never pays off by opening. I’m tired of being the almost- 60-year-old who has to go to the front desk after class to ask the 20-something behind the desk to escort me to my locker and open it with a special key. (Where were these people when I needed them in high school?) These receptionists are always gracious, willing to share stories about the woman last week who had the very same issue. I say nothing. I don’t want to let on that it was probably me.

It was precisely to avoid this kind of trouble that led me to the idiosyncratic decision not to carry my pocketbook or anything other than my coat to the 9:30 Flybarre class in Lincoln Square, Manhattan, yesterday. I had my phone and $50 and my glasses in the pocket. That’s it. My husband had the single key to the apartment, the only one we have since he lost his about four months ago. To avoid the indignity of closing my coat in a locker and abandoning it to an uncertain future, I folded it on the floor next to the coat hooks. When the 8:15 class let out, I hung my jacket on a hook that opened up and, in an attempt to look busy, went around the corner to check out the fascinating collection of two-pound weights. After that, I tried to get into the barre room to claim my mat but was told when I opened the doors that the room was being cleaned and I had to wait. Thank god for that. I walked back to the bench across from the coat hooks. When I got there, I saw a woman who was about to leave wearing a jacket that looked identical to mine.

This is not as big a coincidence as it seems since I recently caved and bought myself the Orolay. It sounds like some kind of weird Swedish sled, but it is really a lightweight down jacket with a comfy hood and about five zippered pockets that sells for $129 on Amazon. Every other person in Manhattan has it. “How do you like it?” I asked pointing to my jacket in the very same color, safe on the hook. This question is always good for a one-minute conversation with someone who seems, in the jacket anyway, like a member of the same tribe. “It’s great,” she said “for sticking things in pockets. I have a three-year-old and it fits all her stuff.” Given that in mine I already look like a polar bear on steroids, I couldn’t imagine adding a zipped-up sippy cup to my heft. I nodded enthusiastically anyway. The woman started up the stairs and unzipped one of the pockets. “Oh my god,” she said sticking her hand in. “This isn’t mine.”

I went over to the lone black Orolay that hung on the hook and felt around the pockets sure enough; when I jiggled one, it was heavier than the two pounders I’d just been playing with. These days, I strive to keep my pocketbooks a little more than the weight of a collection of cotton balls; no way I’d overrun my coat pockets with heavy stuff.

Okay.  She had been about to leave the gym wearing my jacket. This was something the geniuses at Amazon who priced these terrific jackets exceedingly well never considered. They don’t come in that many colors. In New York City, not that many people are going to choose beige or even olive green. The city is overrun with women wearing the same black Orolay jacket, no doubt in the same size.  What did I expect?   This woman has a three-year-old.  She’s probably busy enough labeling things for the preschool cubby. Why should she have written her name on the label? I never thought to do that.

For an extra $15, Amazon should have thrown in a tracking device.

“My key is in mine,” she said.  “I wouldn’t have gotten far.”

I’m so glad I said something,” I told her. ”  Mine has my phone and some money.  I guess I wouldn’t have cared about losing the $50 in my pocket. But my phone….”

What was I doing?  Why did I say that out loud?   I was about to go into a class for 45 minutes and leave my jacket on a hook in a public place.  I should have put a sign up on it that said “Steal from me.  It’s okay.  I don’t care about the money.”

We exchanged jackets.  I never did find out what else was in her pockets.