I’ve never put a lot of emphasis on being warm. I was that asshole in college that would strut around the streets of the city in “going out” tops when it was 30 below out that consisted of an inch of fabric around my taas, and nothing more, leaving onlookers to scream things like, “put a coat on ya whore, it’s freezing!” (Hi mom).
The Northface Denali was the thing to have during my high school/college years. Every girl had at least the black one, and maybe three others in different colors. I had to have it. I swear the good people over at The Northface sewed in hypnotizing devices in each coat so every girl who passed one immediately needed it.
When you come out of The Northface Denali haze, you realize what a true fool you were. There is absolutely no allure to this coat. They aren’t chic. They aren’t fashion-forward. They aren’t timeless. It’s just an overpriced black fleece coat, or excuse me, some weird technologically advanced fabric they engineered to keep you somewhat warm. That’s. About. It. Riveting, right? So I came to and indulged in some proper coats … trenches, over-sized black wool coats, faux fur. The warmth factor of all are debatable.
But let’s roll back to last winter, when the polar vortex was bitch slapping us every single day. The ice cold beating must have made me lose my marbles, because once again, I asked around for the “warmest coat out there,” and all I kept hearing was the long Northface puffy coat in black. I resisted temptation as much as I could, until I opened a Christmas present and found my mother had pulled the trigger for me. I was secretly so pumped. I was always so envious of the stylish girls in their long puffy coats, strutting down the street with their over-the-knee boots, red lips, and slicked back hair (I told you, I have a very vivid imagination). But why?
Sure, this coat is warm as hell. And I’m thankful for having it, I really am. That was until I whipped it out for the first time last week, and on my way to work, I felt like I was in a weird episode of the Twilight Zone. Ever single girl I passed had the same coat on that I was wearing. I wish I were exaggerating. Northface clones were strutting the streets of Philly. And it didn’t stop there. Every day after I saw them. And quite frankly, it freaked me out.
Listen, I don’t need to be the most original, the most outlandish, the one to flip their hair and be all, “I had that first,” I really don’t. In fact, I loathe those people. But why, dear God why, does everyone drink the Northface kool aid and all have to indulge in the same coat habits and be walking around like a Northface army or something? It’s a little weird when you think about it.
I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. I once again I fell down the Northface rabbit hole, and you know what? Once again I’m starring at this Northface coat that I’m so blessed to have and find no allure to it. It isn’t sexy. It isn’t cute. It isn’t timeless. It’s just warm. Perhaps I’ve been reading too much about Parisian women as of late, but we do too much damn work styling ourselves to be covering up it with coats that look like the Michelin Man designed it.
Again, I’m thoroughly thankful for the coat I have. I just wish I didn’t feel like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone when wearing it, like I’m apart of this army of Northface clones who capture non-Northface wearers, throw them in a cage, and make them drink the kool aid to be ONE OF US. ONE OF US. ONE OF US.
I told you, I have a very vivid imagination.