Ah, Sexy Windbreaker. I remember the first time we met as if it were yesterday. I was in the Bay Area for the wedding of Ted Scott and Laura Wolfram. It was the middle of summer in San Francisco, so naturally I was freezing. I had packed the way all Texans pack for northern California: like a dipshit. And so, dressed in my vintage GI Joe T-shirt, flip flops, and Target cargo shorts, I set out from my hotel in search of bargain shopping. What I found was Saks Fifth Avenue.
As I stepped into the store, I remember a fleeting moment of unease, as if I were Jed Clampbett attending an inaugural ball. Then I reminded myself that I’m a ridiculous but amazing person, and I strode forth undeterred by self-conscious nonsense.
A quick ride up the escalator and a long search through the men’s department left me unsatisfied. I’d all but given up and resigned myself to sitting dejectedly in the women’s Armani area while my wife tried on clothes that cost enough to feed Somalia for a year when I saw him. He was hanging on the border of men’s section like he didn’t want to be seen with those other dudes. He was not smoking a cigarette in that cool way that people who don’t smoke cigarettes have.
I adopted a non-committal, distracted demeanor designed to keep the salespeople at bay and approached him. As I drew near, he gave off this “I could give a shit whether you buy me or not” vibe, and I felt like I was meeting Batman.
A quick inspection revealed he had both hip and chest pockets, the latter of which, if used for hands, would regrettably call to mind a farmer with his thumbs in his overalls. What’s more, the collar featured a hidden zipper which, if undone, revealed a nylon hoodie secreted within. I thought to myself “my God, I will *never* use this feature . . . I have to have this jacket!”
Moments later, as the salesman handled my transaction, he asked “do you vant zis in ze bag, of vill you vear it out?”
“You mean him? Will I wear him out? Do you really have to ask?” I donned the garment and was transformed. Where once I ambled, now I moved with purpose. Where once I slouched with my gut hanging out, now I slouched with my gut somewhat concealed. Where once I made poor decisions ruled by emotion and decidedly suspect rationale, now I made those same poor decisions but looked good doing it.
Invigorated by my purchase and alive to a thrilling world of possibilities, I went to the shoe department where I decided to buy my first pair of Chuck Taylor All Stars. That became, without a doubt, the most lamentable shoe purchase I’ve ever made, as Converse apparently prides itself on crafting the worst footwear in Christendom. I’ve worn those shoes exactly once, during the walk from Saks to the InterContinental Mark Hopkins hotel, where I would throw them in the corner in disgust. But that walk, plagued as it was by ill-adorned feet, was nevertheless glorious. For it was the maiden voyage of the garment soon to be known as Sexy Windbreaker, and it heralded the start of an adventure far bigger than the both of us.
