Each of the past few cooler mornings, I have pulled my denim jacket over my shoulders after it has hung in the closet for months.
It’s an old jacket, well-worn (in many ways), faded just right, shows its age and (much like me) is a little frayed at the edges. It has been repaired and stitched up (also like me) and has years of life left in it, I’m sure.
Extremely comfortable, it has a purpose. I remember selecting the jacket when it was brand new, admiring the inner pockets that can hold, if required, a journal or additional camera lens if I’m out on an adventure.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had a jean jacket. There’s several old photos of me at the lake, at different ages, in several jean jackets. I’ve grown out of many, lost a few along the way, and this one might be the jacket that has been with me the longest.
In June, I even looked at crisp, indigo new replacement, but it was June, after all, and didn’t think I’d need a jacket for a few months. I put off the purchase for later.
Yesterday, as I walked down to get coffee, I couldn’t imagine what I was thinking. You can’t buy comfort like this, not at first.
It takes time for denim to soften, for the jacket to fit just right after years of wash and wear. The jacket has grown older with me.
I’ve learned to live with it, as I have learned to live in it.