My jacket's view of the world

I have lots of upper outerwear. Three hoodies, a couple of windbreakers, the leather jacket that my mother gave me, and of course, the Alaska coat which is huge and incredibly warm and covered with pockets filled with an assortment of winter gloves, knit caps and a muffler or two.

Today it was below freezing but not frigid so I wore my usual go-to winter jacket, a warm fleece lined hooded zipper jacket that Mary got for me a few years back.

Since I don’t catch a chill all that easily and where I live doesn’t exactly get many blizzards, there are a limited number of days and nights when this jacket actually gets worn. Even so, wearing it is so automatic during certain months of the year, I put it on with no conscious awareness of arms finding sleeves. It slides on easily, it fits and embraces me and we’re friends.

But my friendship is somewhat inconstant. It’s a one-sided relationship driven entirely by my need and whim. I never give a thought to fulfilling the garment’s needs and wants; it’s all about me.

I can imagine the jacket getting a thrill of hope when I open the closet door only to have that hope become a hard lump in its (do jackets have throats?) when it realizes my hand has gone to another. Through the drought of summer and the very occasional fall excursions, the hope builds until finally the weather becomes reliably cold enough to require its services on a regular basis.

But the wealth of outings to which I treat it during the winter just brings more heartbreak as it builds the custom of expectation that the jacket will be taken along on this outing and the next and… until it – almost – forgets the hurt of not being chosen. But then, Spring comes again and with it, more and more frequent disappointments until by mid-June, outrage is supplanted by grief and then despair.

My jacket asks only to be included, wanted and in return, keeps me warm when none of my other garments or combination of garments would do as well. It doesn’t care and may not even know that there are whole months when adequate warmth is provided by a globe in the sky and the daylight lasts eighteen of twenty-four hours. Its life plays out either protecting me from the cold or biding its time in the dark and clutter of the hall closet.

The jacket is resigned, if not content, to live a life that is no life except when I choose to bring it out into the light. And it never complains, certainly never rebels. It’s there when I need it, providing warmth and embrace without demanding anything in return.

I really should treat it better. Perhaps this year I will. Maybe even wear it every now and again during the summer months or at least put in the back seat of the car so it can see what the summer world is about.  

But, probably I won’t.

This isn’t an even-handed relationship. It’s all about me.

Sorry.