An Ode To Denim Jackets

Today marks the last day of summer, and yet, the temperatures say other wise. In New York City, we felt a warm 80 degrees today, and in other states, they’re just short of  hitting 90. The slow creep into the chilly weather and the constant return of the warmer weather has me a little confused at times. For instance, on Monday I changed my outfit three times. It was excessive, and by the third look I was exhausted. 

Yesterday instead of changing outfits more than once, I grabbed my jacket on my way out the door. Throwing it on in the morning, tying it around my waste as the temperatures peeked, and tucking it in my tote bag as I ducked in and out of cafes. When the night grew cooler, it went back on with a bandana wrapped around my neck for good measure.

Since my birthday dinner I’ve had the same lonely denim jacket floating about my apartment. It is pale in color, soft in texture, and hardly looks loved enough. It’s my size, and still, I can’t bring myself to throw it on. For good measure, I’ve texted every guest of the night and no claims as of yet. It’s been two months. There’s something about the action of wearing a lost staple, and possibly abandoning my own in the process that doesn’t seem quite right. 

This hesitation got me thinking about beloved pieces– denim jackets specifically. ‘Tis the season and all that good stuff (even though it doesn’t feel like it). Mine was found at a vintage store. It is boxy and stiff, no matter the quantity of wash. The sleeves are slightly shorter and can barely roll up properly to a comfortable bracelet length. The body feels larger than me, and the collar still smells of vintage store moth balls. Nevertheless, I wear it and I keep it. We’ve clocked years; snugged tightly beneath wrapped babies, under blazers, capes, and heavy winter coats. It’s been in rain and thrown on subway platforms. Forgotten in-between moments at late night dinners and reclaimed shortly after.