In praise of the lumberjack jacket...

Last year I turned 22 on my birthday, and it was probably the best birthday of my life for a variety of reasons. The Berry Queen bought me my very own plaid lumberjack jacket, and I realize now that to describe a lumberjack jacket as plaid is redundant in and of itself because do they come in any other color?

I love my lumberjack jacket with a love that is fierce and strong, because it is warm and cozy, it is comfortable, it is plaid, it is soft. It acts as many things: a blanket, a comforter, a jacket, a shawl, and sometimes even a boyfriend. When I wear the lumberjack jacket I know that I can be single for the rest of my life because its like being wrapped up in something safe and warm and comfy and really, who needs a smelly man who's likely to leave razors on the bathroom counter when you already have a lumberjack jacket on hand? Not me, that's for sure.

Mal wore the lumberjack jacket out for a cigarette this weekend, and I think it was the first time in her life that she ever experienced the lumberjack jacket-y goodness. We were driving to a wedding on Sunday and she turned to me as we were lost for the seventh time in a random parking lot. There was an air of seriousness about her, a sincerity on her face when she looked at me and said:

"I'm sorry for judging you for wearing the plaid jacket."

"What?"

"No, really. I'm sorry for judging you. I wore it out for a smoke this morning and it was seriously so comfy. I get it now. I get why you love the jacket so very much."

I have to say that there is really not a conversation that I value as much as that one, and I know that it is a friendship based on strength and trust when she admitted that something so hideous and unbecoming can be so loved at the very same time.

I've decided to punish her for her months of ridicule come this October. I think she needs her very own lumberjack jacket, so that she can wallow in the flannel goodness even when I am not around. And then every time someone comes over and finds a plaid jacket jammed into the recesses of her closet, she'll have to flounder for an excuse as to why she owns such an abonimation. But then, while she's floundering, perhaps she'll realize that she doesn't need an excuse, and she can weep and proclaim her undying love for plaid jackets and hold it in her arms and she can know without a doubt that this is what true love is really all about.