I bought a long Patagonia down jacket. It’s red. I live in Central Oregon. There are too many jokes about this to even get started. Suffice it to say it’s quite cliche. In light of my recent blog about being frugal, I will share it was in a resale store, hanging there all pretty and red, with a markdown tag on it. In other words, I got it for a sweet deal. It doesn’t smell bad, and it doesn’t have any glaring flaws…not sure I trust it yet.
Well, there is a hole in the right pocket, so I made up a story about someone putting something valuable in that pocket, and the seam was just a teeny bit off from where it should be, and while the *thing* was in the pocket, and with the help of mighty gravity and friend friction, maybe the little brave threads worked free one at a time despite their clinging efforts, and the *thing* slipped free through the hole, and it was left behind on the ground somewhere, lonely and cold, and the owner later found the thing missing and lamented its loss and retraced her footsteps only to find nothing, and return home sad the *thing* was missing and then she got mad at the jacket and it was “sent away.”
Then the story turned into, maybe the jacket was just hanging somewhere and it fell off its random hanging place into a box of outgrown ski attire heading off for resale, and the person in the house picked the box up and thought, “Hmm that’s weird I thought she really liked that coat. Odd but to each their own!” And off it went, like the time my husband accidentally took a box of things (mostly mine) to Goodwill. It was not a Goodwill box. Maybe you saw that coming.
Then the story became: it was a gift, from a partner, and then the relationship ended, and this is the broken-love coat turfed off for resale tearfully. And now I’m wearing a broken-love coat around filling it with love and giving it another chance.
This could go on and on and on. But lunch.