In my thirties I became someone who goes about in what are known as vintage jackets. Their leather was distressed and their pocket bottoms deeply compromised. I never knew how to fix them and I felt, to a tailor, if I could even find a tailor in my modern world, I’d have to pay at least a jacket’s cost again. So I carried everything I’d have carried in my pockets in shoulder bags instead (which also helped accommodate my burgeoning bottled water habit). With each occasion to wear one I’d wonder, would my jacket survive? Along the shoulders or the upper arms, the split seams gaped; fortunately the straps of the shoulder bags also served to conceal this. But the colors of the worn leather were beautiful. It was like wearing a Dutch oil painting that had been slashed from its frame. Imagine me at the theater, surrounded by my elders, my jacket cracking audibly as I shrug it on to take my intermission cigarette outside. Seniors, ladies jeweled and lacquered, what are they seeing? They consult their Playbills.
Consolation Site: Incidentally