I’m wearing this leather jacket this morning — it’s a blazer really. I thrifted it a few months ago in what I would consider to be pristine condition. No rips or tears, the scratches were few and far between.
I think I’ve worn it twice since I’ve bought it — both times sporting it while just sitting behind a desk for 8 hours.
Packing to go to back to New York City is never easy… I want to wear any and everything. It is a trip where planning for 3 outfits a day might not even be enough… Needless to say, the bags are stuffed and what was meant to solely be my work bag is also now stuffed with two outfits, a pair of heels, two books, my makeup bag, and then of course my computer. It’s so stuffed that I can’t even use the shoulder straps… it’s so bulbous that it has to settle on the crevice of my arm — giving me a full day bicep workout.
So, I know, you get it… my bag is stuffed — so what? We’ve all been there…
True, but here’s the thing —
Upon exiting my apartment, rolling my carry on in one hand and working that bicep with the other, I began to worry about the blazer…
The pristine leather that I was so fortunate to find all those months ago.
As I arrived to TSA and could finally relieve my arm for the slightest of moments, I looked down at where the straps had been tugging, and there were these teeny little marks. This burnt orange leather now had little tick marks — stress marks, if you will.
Suddenly, I was discouraged. I was kicking myself for having ruined such a unique find — a find I most likely will pass down to my kids someday (yes, the blazer is that good!). It’s a timeless piece and the quality, out of this world — and I just ruined it.
Or did I…?
You see, I caught myself — in that split second of regret and disappointment where I told myself I should’ve just chosen another jacket and kept this one locked away for a “safer” occasion.
Why? What is the point of clothing if not to wear them? To make memories in them?
Something I’ve always loved to talk about since I started this writing space all those years ago, has been the depth of clothing. To dive into the fascination of the ability cloth has to carry memories, moments, and stories.
When I look through my closet, I don’t just see cotton cloth pieces sewn together on a hanger… I see a flight to Florence at the beginning of this year where I spent over 24 hours just traveling to get there. And the little stain on the front of that sewn cotton cloth… it’s from the cup of coffee they served me and I spilled on my second flight of that trip when my eyes were burning, but heart was racing due to the anticipation of eventually arriving.
Clothing carries memories, and the imperfections carry moments.
So this blazer, the one I was so worried about now having a few scratches in the middle of the right arm… if anything it’s even more special. Whenever I grab for this jacket in the future, or eventually pass it along, I will look at those scratches and smile. I will be able to talk about the time I was in my twenties, bought a flight to New York, and laughed with my best friend for the weekend while soaking up fashion week, all just because I wanted to.
This past weekend I was asked what one thing I was personally working on in my life was. Without hesitation, I responded — “overthinking.”
It’s always been a struggle of mine and continues to be a mountain that I climb.
As I started looking deeper at why I overthink or have certain tendencies that I do, all of my imperfections began to flood in… Why?
Why am I this way? Truly. I don’t mean that negatively. No one is perfect, and I sure as heck am not, but why? Out of all of these so called “imperfections” why are these the ones I am burdened with?
Even growing up with scoliosis — a severely imperfect spine… I was so self conscious for the first 18 years of my life. I had such a strong dislike for my body — self love was like a foreign language to me.
While discussing my surgery with a stranger last week, they told me they were sorry I had to go through my surgery — I told them I wasn’t. I told them that I’d do it all over again. Their jaw dropped and face confused — why?!
I would not be me without my imperfections. Just as the scratches on my leather jacket will now forever tell a story, so do all of the little scratches that live within me — they’ll always be a part of my story. Good or bad, they are the building blocks of who I am and who I continue to grow to be.
Imperfections are proof of strength. They’re proof of a life lived. They are little tick marks that say — “that was hard, but I’m still here”.
What a gift it is — to be imperfect.
