A couple of years ago, I purchased a blackish/dark navy velvety blazer, what some people would consider a smoking jacket. The blazer was soft and it was elegant, and it could've been worn with the darkest of jeans to make me look like a philosopher, an artiste, an avant garde. It was the one blazer my wardrobe cried out for.
When it was in my hands, this feeling of completion washed over me. I would not need to purchase any other piece of semi-formal clothing ever again. This completed it. It was very Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Not metrosexual. I hate that term.
When I got home, I placed the bag down and didn't return to it for a couple of days. I wasn't in a rush to put everything away. When the day came for me to put it away, I plowed through the bag to find that it wasn't there.
This mystery has plagued me for a couple of years. One minute I had the stupid thing, and the next minute, I didn't. What's up with that?
I'm thinking the store clerk didn't actually put it in the bag. The hanger, yes, but not the actual article of clothing. What? The hanger? Last weekend, Steph came out with a giant plastic hanger. We assumed it was the hanger the blazer came on, but where was the blazer? The void in my wardrobe remains.