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| Not this Patagonia |
I'll be glad when this is done. I dread shopping for clothes. I'd sooner buy a gold-plated hose bib than a new shirt. It goes back to those annual back-to-school shopping ordeals. They didn't merely signal the end of summer; they were how I was prepared for life. On shopping day I was marched into a boy's department to find five days of academic attire worthy of my meticulously-dressed father. It was there I learned the fickle nature of authority. This has served me well at Space System Labs.
But with age comes wisdom. In time we learn that neurosis does not always provide the best counsel. Cheap is better and warm tops hypothermia. So trepidation be damned.
I arrive at Pasadena Patagonia mulling the vagaries of free will. The shop has just opened. I cross the threshold into a world of eco-materialism. It smells like sandalwood and sounds like a didgeridoo. The store is a paragon for social order. Neat racks of well-space garments surround the permitter. Display tables bearing stacks of folded shirts and sweaters are arranged like remote atolls angled for proper Feng shui. Above it all are mural-size posters of happy trekkers conquering the Patagonian steppes and surfers contemplating big sets at Pipeline. There's a low murmur from a dozen other early birds competing for bargains. The words, "while supplies last," scroll across consciousness.
I wend my way to a rack of down coats. They are arranged by color. There are four to chose from: Caltrans orange, antifreeze green, mouthwash blue and black. I've never been inclined to purchase clothes that I wouldn't want to wear on Halloween. I stick with black. I take down a "L."
As I am about put an arm in the sleeve, a pert woman, half my age, comes along to sift through orange and green. She wears a ponytail, too much eye make-up, flip-flops and jeans with a lot of unnecessary stitching. I nod, careful not to seem a silly old flirt. When I was her age, I shopped at army surplus.
She gives me a suspiciously merry smile and says, "Are you shopping for your girl friend?"
"Not really."
"I was just wondering because that's a women's coat." She points to the racks on the next wall. "There's the mens."
I fumble the coat getting it back on the hanger, but finish with a face-saving flourish.
"Very cute." she says.
Don't remember exactly when I started getting these lame consolations. You reach a certain age when people her age expect people my age to be daft. So what if you forget your fly. So what if you walk into the wrong restroom. It doesn't matter quite as much. Greater indignities lie ahead. If you ask me it's cold comfort.
I head over toward the men's coats. I see an immediate problem. There is only one color: the cough-syrup blue. This is not working out as planned. There's a creeping feeling of defeat. I must have help.
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| Archaic punishment for avarice |
"Some one will be with you in a minute."
Ever notice that it is NEVER a minute. It's just another one of those little indignities that blight modern life. Like the servers who says, "are you still working on that?" or the big box clerk who asks, "Do you have our discount card" or the cable provider's customer-service rep who finishes every unsatisfying call with "Is there anything else I can do for you today?" which I know is a typo because the "for" must really be "to." Why not just tell me to hold my horses?
Just at the point of bolting on the principle that the price of freedom is never too high, help arrives. This Patagonian is a good 6 inches taller than me. He sports a perfectly trimmed 3 day growth and a cue ball haircut — in his case, by choice.
"I'm looking for a down coat, windshell and upper base layer. On sale."
"No worries," he says without the slightest hint he has just contributed to the fall of western civilization. I follow him to the mono colored men's rank. He hands me a mouthwash-blue and says, "That's a large, right?"
"Got any black?"
"Not on sale."
I try the coat. It hangs down to my groin. The sleeves could accommodate another set of hands. "Fine," I say. "What about a windshell?"
I follow him to another. He hands me a mouthwash-blue windshell.
"Got any black?"
"Not on sale. Let's get your upper. It's black," he says.
On the bright side, I get a good price for all these gems. For less that the cost of a down coat, I've prepared for the cold and damp.
He rings me up and stuffs my garb into a recyclable bag. "Great prices. Got a big trip planned?"
"I going to hike the John Muir Trail."
"Wow, that's cool. My girl friend did that last year."
"Really? You didn't go?"
"Next time. I was training for the Angeles Crest 100-mile run. You should try it."
The Crest run is not really for humans. It's not just a 100 mile run, it's over 48,000 ft of elevation change. No exaggeration. Perhaps something happens to you if you spend too much time around sandalwood.
Soon as I get home, I break out the scale. The coat, windshell and upper base layer all weigh in as advertised. My wife walks in on the process. "Let me see what you got?"
I hold up my new coat. "It's really light."
"Cheerleader blue," she says. "I think I'm going to enjoy seeing you wear that.