Oldilocks and the Denim Jackets

I actually hate shopping – Kate Bosworth

You wouldn’t think it would be a big thing, would you?

I just assumed that when the sun finally comes out and I can start wearing palazzo pants and flip flops, and decide that a denim jacket is the only thing that will go with this ensemble, that I can go out and buy a denim jacket from whatever shop I want.   There’s one in the window of every shop I pass, so there shouldn’t be a problem, should there?

I hate buying clothes.  I used to love it about twenty five years ago, when I was a size ten, but twenty five years ago I was a student and had no money. 

Not that I have any now, but at least now I get to waste my wages before I start thrashing myself about and lamenting my poverty.  Back then I just had no money.

So off I went, at lunchtime last Friday, to buy a denim jacket.
It’s a curse, in ways, working in the centre of town.  I often think that if I worked in some industrial estate miles from anywhere, that I would have money coming out of my ears.  Every little idea that crosses my mind ends up with a gallop out to Henry Street at lunchtime, or after work.  Or when I have it really bad for something, in the mornings before work even starts.

Anyway, the denim jacket was only a notion I took.  I am under no illusion that I am young and will wear the jacket to threads, so I had no intention of buying an expensive one. In any case, most of the jackets in the shops seem to be in threads already.  Christ alive, I sound a hundred years old.

In the first shop, the jacket looked lovely from the front.  The right colour, the right shape, your classic denim jacket.  I thought I’d hit the jackpot and was just flicking through the rail, trying to get to the big girl stuff that I imagine the shops shove at the back of the rail so they won’t be accused of being sizeist, when I noticed that the jackets had some sort of slogan printed across the back.  I think they might have been in stock for the Guns and Roses concert last weekend.  I can’t remember what it said, but it was something along the lines of “Here comes Trouble” or “I’m Trouble” or something, with angel wings and yokes all over it.

God be with the halcyon days when young lads would see me coming and think “here comes trouble”, in a good way.  I don’t honestly think they ever did.  I have a much adored younger sister who I hung around with all the time as a teenager, and still would, if she wasn’t so far away.  She was trouble.  I was the eejit going along two steps behind her trying to encourage her not to be so bold that we’d both end up locked in the house forever, when our parents heard of the latest outrage.  She’s great fun, and I really think that if it wasn’t for her I never would have gotten into any sort of trouble at all.  Too eejity.  She is brave and bold and devil may care.  And blonde. 
Nobody ever saw the pair of us approach and thought “Here comes trouble” about me.

And even if they had they wouldn’t think it now.  In fairness maybe there’s a better chance of young lads thinking I’m trouble if they saw me approaching these days.  For as I age I am developing Bitchy Resting Face.  They’d probably think I’m coming to eat the face off them (in the bad way) or tell them to keep the noise down, or worst of all, to take their grubby paws off my errant daughter. 

There are endless reasons why the jacket was not an option.

In the next shop every denim jacket looked like it was held together by hope and one last thread, which if snagged, would cause the entire garment to fall asunder.  I never wear ripped clothes.  Well, I do, but only when I’ve accidentally ripped them myself.  I don’t buy ripped clothes, because my 1980’s recession reared heart can’t accept that I should pay full price for something that looks half destroyed.   And also because I don’t have the innate style that some women have, that can make ripped clothes look cool and chic. 
My style is more hobo, I look like I’m wearing ripped clothes because I’m so thick or so lazy or so delusional that I don’t care how bad I look.
No to the ripped jackets.  They’ve gone too far.  It used to be frayed cuffs and a careful small patch above the pocket.  I’m not buying a jacket that looks like someone’s been stabbed in it.

Next was next.  They had a jacket that looked, on the hanger, like it should be okay.  They looked big, and like an eejit I thought that either I was getting smaller (I’m not.  I cannot put words to how silly that idea was) or the sizes are getting more generous.  Instead, I discovered that this jacket was referred to as “outsize”.  I don’t know what it means.  Maybe it’s what we used to call baggy in my teenage years.  But baggy never worked for denim jackets.

This one came down past my hip, and was far too wide around the waist.  It was a ridiculous looking item.  I can only assume that the eighties revival is still going on.

In Marks and Spencer the only nice jacket they had was cropped.  Seriously cropped.  It barely came to under my boobs.

What a frightful idea.  Imagine wearing a jacket that precisely highlights what’s where other people’s waist and curves and nice bits are.  Not a question of it.  It was too short.

Too big, too small, would I ever find the jacket?  It was getting to a time where I was very much expected back at my desk.  But I’m an instant gratification type of person.  I very rarely try to put an outfit together.  And now that I had thought about one, I wanted it immediately.  I decided to be brazen and run to one more shop.

And there it was.  The almost perfect denim jacket.  A bit darker than I would have liked, but the right shape, not torn to shreds, no motifs or statements.  Just a denim jacket. And, if you can believe it, reduced by twenty five percent.  I got the funny feeling I get when I see something I think I really want.  A sort of butterflies in the tummy carry on.  Where I take the coveted garment from its hanger and slip it on, expecting to be immediately transformed into a beauty in the mirror.  Not because denim jackets doth beauties make, but because I wanted a denim jacket.  I always think, in the shops, that if I get what I want I will automatically look a hundred times better.  I am an advertiser’s dream.  And a complete and utter gom.

It was too good to last.  I knew that.  The closest they had to my size was either two sizes too big, or two sizes too small.

I was like a divil.  This was one of those one day spectaculars, allegedly, where everything in the shop was reduced just on Friday.  Feck it anyway.  But sure, you couldn’t have luck.  You can’t find the jacket that will suffice, you’ll note I’m not even pretending it was perfect, and just buy it, reduced in price.

I must have been a bit delirious from all the clothes shops at this point.  I hate them, and every time I go to one makes me hate them more, as I feel a little more of my past self die away and a little more of my new middle aged self take over.

I bought it two sizes too big, with the notion that when they get sizes back in next week, I can just exchange it, thus still getting it for sale price. 
I brought it back to the office, and showed off my purchase, for the benefit of the group.  I try to insist on this when we all get something new after payday.  Before I even took it out of the bag I was explaining the predicament with it being size enormous.  Even though I work with these people every day, and they know what I look like, I make it my business to not mention my clothes size and act like it’s smaller than it is.  

You can imagine my horror, when I put the cursed fecking yoke on, to discover that I don’t need to change it.  It’s not a perfect fit, but it’s near enough that I know my usual size will be too snug. I’m afraid to go back for the one that’s one size too big, in case the same thing happens. I’m distraught, of course.  I don’t want to go up any more clothes sizes.