I Want To Be Buried In It

I'm sitting in Panera trying to figure out what to blog about. A blog is an essay written to be shared with the world. It should be thoughtful, intelligent, and relevant.

As I sit here wishing I'd maybe watched the news this week so I could be thoughtful, intelligent, and relevant, the most brilliant observation I can come up with is that there's a well-dressed, impeccably coiffed older woman at the table in front of me. Her pale pink sweater set is accented with a strand of thick pearls. Her black and red lumberjack jacket doesn't match her outfit. In fact it doesn't match her. So much for intelligent commentary.

And this from a 50 year old woman in black sneakers and a thermal hoodie! I suspect that at some point before my death I should start dressing beyond what I might have worn in junior high. But I went through a lot of trouble to keep this hoodie, so I might just put in my will that I wish to wear it to my funeral.

Somewhere in my early 20's I acquired a burgundy thermal hoodie. I know it wasn't mine originally, and I can only assume that it belonged to my husband until I permanently borrowed it. It hung in my closet for so long that no one has any recollection of it belonging anywhere else or to anyone but me. It happily resided with me until one dark and stormy Halloween season weekend several years ago when we and some friends went to Salem to be the only people touring the attractions in the torrential rains. Utterly soaked through at the end of the day, I hung the beloved garment in the hotel room closet to dry. We were only staying the one night so I didn't bother putting anything else in the closet and I accidentally abandoned it there. In the ensuing days I searched high and low through dirty laundry and clean. I emptied drawers and scoured the deep recesses of closets until the truth hit home. I tried calling the hotel, but they knew nothing. Bereft without my perfect sweatshirt, I began to search the stores. Wrong color. Not thermal. No hood. No zipper. Then I found it in the men's department at Walmart, between the denim work shirts and the carpenter's jeans. I found and purchased my holy grail without even consulting a price tag!

Sitting here this past hour, I have not thought anything coming close to intelligent, but I have made a decision. The lady in pink and pearls with lumberjack plaid is my unmatched hero. If she wants to wear pearls and flannel, fashion pundits be damned. It is her God-given right. And I am wearing my hoodie to my funeral.