The Great Debate

Legend has it M almost beat up another tomboy in a bar for having the nerve to ask her if she was wearing fleece. Or maybe the tomboy had simply asked M what she has against fleece. Who knows? It was ages ago.

I have only owned one single item of fleece, finding it a repulsive material in general, and it was a base layer for my first season of skiing. It died of moldy causes late last year, and it hasn't been missed.

Our friends tend to apologize well in advance if they know they'll be wearing fleece in our presence, backpedaling over outdoorsy excuses, blaming on the cruel advances of SF fog, etc.

It's just understood that we are not a household that embraces fleece.

Well, last week I was thrifting and I found this incredible dress from Asos on the racks for something like $5, in great condition. I had to have it. I couldn't resist. In the nicely exaggerated angles zipped from hem to neckline, it fit me perfectly.

The guilt crept in even before I plucked the hanger off the dressing room wall, the pathetic rationale already playing in my head, and I could see M's eyebrows knitting together in disapproval - no, disdain! at her wife. Her weak, betraying wife, slouching home from a gorgeous, unsupervised afternoon of thrifting with a very misunderstood fleece garment in her bags.

It was too much. I needed it and I was powerless to refuse the lure of the structured fleece LBD.

The next day I was going to the museum alone. I said nothing, but slipped the dress on over a loud, floral pair of Betsey Johnson tights and my new boots from Nine West. It was that maddening SF combo of bright and sunny and frigid and I was warm, despite it all. I was warm because of the evil fleece dress.

I skipped downstairs to kiss her on the cheek before leaving. She saw me stepping through the foyer and exclaimed, "You look so fancy!" and I blushed, avoiding her eyes and chewing on my lower lip, wondering if I could keep from telling her. "IT'S THE FLEECE DRESS," I blurted, my arms spazzing out defensively. She nodded gravely, then shook her head, then did that thing with her eyebrows I'd been dreading. "But you liked it," I pouted.

"Jonesey," she said, "it's fleece." She said it like you'd say:

Jonesey, it's stealing or Jonesey, it doesn't match Jonesey, you'll be sacked.

In short: Jonesey, it's wrong.

You tell me, y'all, how can something so wrong feel so right?

Some on-location shots from SF MOMA (go see Exposed and the wine exhibition while you can - admission is half-price for awhile as the 2nd and 3rd floors are not open):