Yes, that is the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy in my front pocket.

Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve had big pants and bigger pockets. The goal of every big pocketed boy is to find stuff to put in them. I often carried home anything cool I found out on my adventures. Rocks, pliers, screw drivers, the Percy Jackson series.

But Percy Jackson eventually wasn’t enough for me. My desire for a mystical world readily available in a convenient spot on my person could no long be satiated by Pegasus and cyclopes. I needed something more, something that would really fill my pants up. That’s when I laid my eyes on The Lord of the Rings collection in my local library. Admiring its heft, and considering the reputation of the series as an epic fantasy adventure, I checked it out and quickly slid it into my pocket. I was set.

But I noticed something strange as I walked down the hallway towards gym class. I was getting strange looks and stares from my female classmates. Something was different here… Maybe they’d finally noticed my inherent swagger?

In gym class, the story was the same. While I was lifting, doing push ups, or running laps, I could feel the eyes on me. At first I thought they might be admiring my squat-with-jeans-and-a-collared-shirt-on method, or that they were impressed with my bench, a whopping 95 pounds bouncing off my chest for three, four, a seemingly uncountable number of reps. But the more they stared, the more I noticed where they were staring. A rectangular bulge sat on my thigh, pressed tight to me with the fabric of the jeans stretching over it. Disgusted, I had to set the book aside, drenched with sweat as it was, in order to continue with class unimpeded. No more reading breaks between sets, but at least the stares had subsided.

I want people to see me for me, not just some hunk with a 5.5 by 8.25 inch, 2.7 pound, completely rectangular package. My eyes are up here. I’ve had to say that too many times to count. I’ve been prohibited from swimming in public pools because the sopping pages floating up to the surface are seen as obscene. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t hide the book within my favorite tight , bright red speedo without being catcalled on the street, or in the office. At this point I’m tired, just tired.

At first I was happy when girls approached me. I thought they wanted to discuss the marvelous, at times tragic and heart rending journey of Frodo Baggins and the fellowship that protects him and his untold burden, not to mention the humorous and exciting exploits of his clever cousin and adoptive uncle Bilbo, whose collection of books is stored in my back pocket. But when every advance is sexual right off the bat, it tends to get old quickly. Especially when some women are bold enough to walk right up to me in front of my wife, and ask me what book I’m reading. And you can be sure they’re never interested in my wife’s copy of House of Leaves that she keeps pinned against her side with her yoga pants. It’s all so transparent.

So I’ve decided to take a vow. I will not read a single book for as long as men like me are subjected to this kind of harassment. Until the day book lovers with impractically huge pockets around the globe are no longer objectivized, Frodo’s gonna have to stay at home. I’m sorry to say it. It’s just too big of a risk for us. This is a call to all book lovers, stop reading. Don’t pick up a single book, tome, listicle, medium article, serialized novel, or ancient text for the next month. We’re calling it No Frodo February. I appreciate all your support.

(Thank you for reading. I know it’s dumb but it’s based on a true story. If you can fit large books in your pockets please let me know and we can be friends.)