My Sweatshirt, May It Forever Be In Good Hands

I was once given a sweatshirt. And now that sweatshirt is gone. Though the cold I will feel in its absence is harsh, it is nothing compared to the empty void left in its place in my heart; and so to fill that void, in lieu of wearing my sweatshirt one more time, I will tell you all the story of that sweatshirt.

I had worked at the beauty school for barely a month when we had a staff meeting to talk about the new product line release. As part of the new line, we would be selling apparel. American Apparel apparel. The t-shirts were okay, but the sweatshirts were amazing. Solid black American Apparel sweatshirts with the smallest hint of the beauty school's name written down the back right shoulder in side-ways printed vertical type. Very clean. Very simple. I decided that, since I'd always wanted an American Apparel sweatshirt and this one could come straight out of a paycheck, I'd take one. So I did. But it never came out of the paycheck.

The sweatshirt was one size too large for me, and so the sleeves were rather baggy. Well, baggy is the wrong word. They were too long. When I'd wear it with something else, remove the two together and then put them both back on, the sleeves would bunch up something terrible at the wrists. This was evident frequently in my nearly-two years at the beauty school where I wore the sweatshirt every single day. I had one co-worker - albeit she was a little odd - who'd wear it when she'd have a bad day saying that, since I never washed it and it had come to exude a very sublet aroma of cute boy, it was the Man Sweatshirt and it felt like a boyfriend's hug.

That sweatshirt and I handled Seattle together.

That sweatshirt and I handled a roadtrip with my now-ex-girlfriend together.

That sweatshirt and I took on the clubs, bicycling in the streets, trips to Tahoe, day trips to San Francisco, and freezing-cold backstage greenrooms together.

That sweatshirt was what saved me in Shasta Pass heading South at too-early-in-the-morning on my motorcycle heading back to Sacramento from Seattle.

I had that sweatshirt when I met Tugboat.

I had that sweatshirt when I was lost in the cornfields in the darkness.

I had that sweatshirt for almost the entirety of my last relationship.

And now I do not have that sweatshirt.

But the memory of the sweatshirt will live on. Today, I will go to a thrift store and buy a new one to stay warm. But always and forever will I think of that sweatshirt. The free sweatshirt that I wore for three and a half years, washing it only one-handfull of times, and loving it every minute.

Sweatshirt, America loves you, and I salute you.

Love Always,

Andrew