It may look like I left you out to dry on Thursday, with nary a peep from the ol’ word processor, but rest assured we’re square. If only you were clairvoyant, you would’ve known I had planned on abandoning you later this week, but with two posts simmering on the range, we’re basically even. What’s more, these posts are being produced under the dreamy, ethereal haze of Zyrtec-D, so I can’t wait to discover what I’ve written when I finally proofread this shit.
As I near the halfway mark in my quest to acquire 10 blazers, I thought it would be timely to record some of my more worthwhile findings. 10 may seem like a wholly arbitrary number, but I assure you it isn’t. It’s nice and round, and more importantly it’s exactly how many days there are in two work weeks. That’s the most extreme scenario I’ve projected, anyhow, where I’d need to don something different for 10 consecutive business days. Statistically improbable, sure, but you can never be too prepared.
The first takeaway is location. You’ve got to find your place. I’ve probably canvassed all the brick-and-mortar locations that ostensibly carry sports jackets, from Gap to Marshalls to Jos. A. Bank to Steinmart to JCPenney and heaven knows where else, and department stores seem to work best for me. I thought I would have the most luck with Jos. A. Bank, but the atmosphere was wretched with what I assume was a commission-based sales structure. Marshalls boasted some recognizable brands, but damn it if their jackets weren’t all shimmery. I guess that’s stylish? To sparkle like a tween vampire?
I didn’t fare so well at Banana Republic. For some reason, I always feel like I’m attending a funeral as a guest–or the main attraction–whenever I try on their clothes. I’m also wary of the store name, because I prefer my republics to be founded on conceits such as liberty and the rule of law, rather than fruit. I’ve spent the most money at Belk, undeterred by my run-in with his douchebag grandson a few years ago.
Ultimately, though, it comes down to the jacket itself, and here are the things I want. No polyester, first and foremost, for durability’s sake–cotton or wool, all the way. Minimal to no shoulder padding is also a must, unless you’re going for the Hillary look. And finally, fit is important, which means you’ve got to try them all on. Sure, you might have a numbered size in mind, but you just won’t know until you wear it. But when you do find a good jacket, feel the right amount of weight flush against you, you’re golden, and then it’s showtime.
Against my better judgment, I’m actually looking forward to my 7 AM alarm tomorrow, a time which runs counter to everything I know to be good and true about decent morning hours. What’s more, the early start is solely in service of an oil change, a seemingly mundane task that shouldn’t call for waking up early, let alone excitement. But it’s not so much the what as the where that’s so appealing, and the chance to seize a little piece of normalcy is just that much more crucial these days.
Between a persistent headache and reports that weekend rainfall was slightly radioactive–one look at my Pur pitcher and it was, like, I don’t think you filter that–I’m not sure what’s next. For about 40 minutes, though, I’ll know exactly what to expect. I’ll step into the cozy waiting room, hand Dutch my keys, and then take a seat near a pot of freshly brewed coffee. Our ritual will then proceed like so: he’ll offer a cup, and I’ll decline to his mock chagrin, telling him I’m there for his auto know-how, not the coffee.
Invariably Dutch, the only service provider I’ve ever met who’s tried to talk me out of keeping the Saab, will ply me with other food and drink–even a mechanic’s jacket, once–and I’ll grab something. This is all merely a prelude, however, to the talk. That’s the main attraction, after all, and after conversing about everything from Smart Cars to autism to crew cuts to Freemasonry, I can’t imagine what’s on the docket for tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll lead in by asking him about car care tips for optimal performance in an irradiated wasteland.
I can feel it: allergy season pounding on the gates, demanding renumeration in its favorite currencies. Head colds. Runny noses. Itchy eyes. But I will not pay up. This year, I shall give no quarter! That would be the synonym for mercy, rather than the coin, which I also shall not furnish. The couple of sniffles from a minute ago? Merely the consequence of the raw emotion brought on by the power of blogging. I’m so overjoyed to bring you this post, in fact, that my eyes appear to be watering.
What I’m trying to say here, I guess, is fuck you, trees. In truth, allergies really do seem to be better this year, no doubt because my daily routes run largely free of nature, and I imagine the parking garage also does its duty to shield my car from pollen. I will have no such luxuries over the weekend, however, because my hunt for blazers continues, and this will require briefly walking outdoors, straight into blankets of allergens.
It’ll be worth it, though. Jackets are just too useful–removable, multi-purpose, strangely reassuring. I’ve got a meeting uptown on Monday, which may call for one to be donned. We’ll dive into all this and more next week, but I’ve essentially been building my shopping rubric for this particular piece of clothing, and I’ve managed to nail down a few things, including target stores, cut, and feel. Guidelines far more helpful, in other words, than slamming my fist onto the sales counter and shouting, “Shopkeep! Fetch me something with two arm holes. Nothing more, nothing less.”