North Face Extreme
Here’s a story I shared about a favorite piece of clothing during last year’s Family of Writers.
I hope it inspires you to recall a piece of clothing with a story. I have a hunch that stories are hanging in your closet, waiting to be shared.
“Ron, come here!” My command is urgent like it’s some kind of emergency. As I wait for my husband, I rifle through our cluttered coat closet, pushing aside jacket after jacket that he hasn’t worn for years.
“What? What is it, Lorrie?”
“This closet drives me crazy! Can’t you donate some of these so we have room for the jackets we actually wear?” The second those words come out of my mouth, we both know I’m a hypocrite. My hands reach for an abandoned North Face jacket. It’s mine. Abandoned and musty with one torn pocket. I free it from the closet and hug it to my chest. I am a teenager again, skiing bump runs in Aspen or jumping off the Cornice in Mammoth, and we both know this jacket will never be donated.
It was a Christmas gift. While my friends wanted a Walkman, Swatch Watch, or leg warmers, all I wanted was that jacket. It was made out of a revolutionary fabric called GORE-TEX. It stopped wind like a brick wall. And I’d be one of the first girls to wear it on the slopes.
But being warm wasn’t the primary reason I wanted that navy blue jacket with the bold red stripe across the shoulders. The material was thin as a sheet of foil. I was a big girl and hated the popular puffy jackets that made me look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. For once, I’d be the fashionable one on the slopes, looking fabulous in my North Face Extreme.
My dad spared no expense for the latest and greatest ski gear. He loved skiing as much as me, and didn’t want to be sidelined by kids (or a wife) complaining that they were cold. But I also think my parents had an inkling about the deeper layers of significance that skiing represented in my life. In the mountains, I felt at home in my body like it was made for hiking steep trails in the summer and attacking black diamond ski runs in the winter.
These were the days when aggressive girl skiers were uncommon. I loved having a chairlift cheering section as I made my way down massive bump runs. The moguls were like mini mountain ranges with deep canyons between each one. With my torso pointed straight down the slope and my skies parallel like they were glued together, I danced with the bumps. My thighs were massive shock absorbers pounding back and forth, side to side like windshield wipers on the fastest speed.
At the bottom, I’d spray snow with a graceful hockey stop near the entrance to the chairlift line, breathing hard, but acting humble and casual, like it was just another day on the slopes. But it was so much more for me. I was in the rare and delightful zone of confidence and joy.
Off the slopes and out of the mountains, it was a different story. By sixth grade, I was one of the two biggest and tallest girls in my grade. I was the fat girl on a diet who couldn’t eat what everyone else was eating, or wear what all my girlfriends were wearing. No Dittos. No Chemin de Fers. No string bikinis–which was a real bummer since I lived in sunny SoCal where every weekend and the entire summer meant beach days, laying out, and pool parties. Unlike skiing when I welcomed attention, I spent a lot of time avoiding these events with white lies about prior engagements.
But that’s not my story. My story is about a ski jacket. I love that it was a splurge present from my dad. I love that it kept me warm without being puffy. Most of all, I love that it gave me a glimpse of how it felt to be cool and pretty. It would be decades before I discovered how to feel the same confidence in bathing suits and ball gowns, but I’ll never forget how it felt to be navy blue bold and red stripe strong wearing my North Face Extreme on the slopes.
Do you have a piece of clothing that’s holding a story? I’d love to know about it in the comments!