I was talking to Johnathan last night about doing something exciting with our free time, and as I tried to think of an example I ended up telling him about the black cape Marilyn, my Australian host mum, made for me in high school, and how I felt so ineffably cool wearing it. The cape had a lustrous red silk lining and was the first piece of clothing ever pre-shrunk, made for my small little body. Once, when I had a cold, I wore it with sweatpants and sheepskin Ugg boots to the doctor’s office. I remember walking through small little Tallangatta with my cape flowing out behind me, clutching a sack of mandarin oranges, my boots clumping on the non-snowy sidewalk.
“That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard about you,” Johnathan said.
“What? I was so cool. My only regret is that it didn’t have armholes.”
Johnathan gave me a sad little look. “Armholes? Wouldn’t that make it–a dress open down the front?”
I spent the evening lusting after my cape, wondering what had happened to it, wishing I had it in Japan. I’d wear it to school I promised myself. I’d wear it biking around town. Then I pictured myself, racing through the back roads, my cape floating out behind me like a hair extension, the red lining winking in the sunlight, my head thrown back as I laugh and laugh and laugh. My students averting their gaze when they see me, worried for my sanity, unsure if maybe I think–I can fly?
I decided I have enough problems sticking out at the office when I wear a green turtleneck to work.
