So Much Depends Upon a Writing Exercise

Ten minutes. Go.

So much depends upon a grey polarfleece jacket, missing one of its zippers and the drawstring from around its waist. I could swear I zipped it up last night at the gym, on the way home, talking with First Consort Gareth about the minutiae of life; the type of conversations we swear we'll never have because we are NOT our parents-- we are immortal and will speak of nothing but romance and starshine and significance (and what would YOU like for dinner? Dunno. Fast food's ok, tho' it seems kind of silly to be talking about fast food with all the fat and sugar and bloated wallowing evil when we're just coming out of the gym. Whatcha doing over there? Zipping up my jacket.)

But I couldn't find it this morning, even though I know in my heart that I laid it on the bed last night after we came in and ate boxes out of the fragrant paper bag. I see it still in my eyes, next to the jumper and long t-shirty slip. I looked in the laundry, I looked in the drycleaning, I looked in the washer and the dryer in case I started a load with my old fuzzy friend (it's missing the zipper in one pocket because that zipper broke one wintry sullen day with my wallet zipped tight inside, and the only way to get to my cash and ID was to take a seam ripper and remove the zipper entire, teeth still locked tight. I ripped out the drawstring around the hem out within a week of buying the thing because the locking beads tucked inside the pockets called to my fingers; I was constantly twiddling them till my index finger tips were sore.)

Stupid jacket from Target. Stupid glorified soda bottle. You were less than twenty bucks when I bought you years ago--off a rack with dozens of others. You're nothing special.

You're grey and fuzzy and like a security blanket without the satin trim. You've gone camping with me and I know the little patch of burned fuzz where the ember landed and melted your material before I could brush it off. You've gone with me to Mexico and walked on the beach in the salt spray. You've gone hiking with me in Greer in the rain.

I finally gave up hunting around the house (in the garage? No. In the office? No. In the workshop? No. Under the table, in my closet, in the hall closet? No, no no.) and called the gym to see if anyone had turned it in. They had--it was waiting in lost and found under the front desk. I hurried over in Friday rush hour traffic to reclaim my touchstone.

So much depends on a grey polarfleece jacket that's seen better days.