One item of clothing that I did particularly adore, however, was my light aqua-colored sweatshirt that I wore literally every day for almost two years. The sweatshirt was emblazoned with a car in the middle, surrounded above and below with the same name in different colors with a heavy 80's inspiration: Jimmy'Z (I don't know the correct pronunciation, but my family and I have always just said "Jimmy Z").
I had no idea if this was a clothing brand name or an auto mechanic company that advertised via bitchin' sweatshirts, but none of that mattered. What matters is that I loved this sweatshirt with what I now realize is an irrational obsession, pawing after it every morning like a man underwater, desperately clawing for the surface, for my very life. The pants and shirts that I "chose" every morning were arbitrary and inconsequential; they were expendable as napkins and I probably hated them all. I do remember that I only had one pair of pants that did not rest above my ankles, exposing the lace frills at the ends of my socks; these pants I tolerated. But as soon as I begrudgingly robed myself in my garbage clothes, I would dutifully pull my Jimmy'Z sweatshirt over my head and let its over-sized fabric drape over my shoulders like a twin-sized sheet. The sleeves pooled around my hands like those of a wizard, and my legs jutted out from the bottom of the sweatshirt like knobby twigs from under a circus tent.
I donned my sweatshirt with the reverence of a crown upon a king's brow. And with that, I was ready for school. Every day. From 3rd grade until maybe 5th or 6th, I don't remember. When you wear the same sweatshirt every day, you can imagine how the days bleed together in an aqua blur.
As often as I wore my Jimmy'Z sweatshirt, I am surprised at how few pictures exist of me in it. I'm sure there are more somewhere at my parents' house, but I was hard-pressed to find one this evening. I pondered this to a friend earlier, who said, "Maybe your mom didn't take pictures of you in that sweatshirt because she didn't want people to think you wore it every day." Good point. I was able to dig up one picture in my possession, though, which more than adequately conveys my persistence in wearing the sweatshirt while also depicting my unadulterated enthusiasm for the sweatshirt itself.
 |
| This sweatshirt makes me impervious to drowning and death in general |
I caught an understandable amount of guff for my decision to live in a sweatshirt nonstop. I remember my mom holding the door for my sister and I as we dashed to the school bus. Upon seeing me yet again in my Jimmy'Z sweatshirt, my mom asked exasperatedly, "Tiffany, why are you wearing that sweatshirt again? It's not cold outside." My only thought to her question, which I verbalized, was, "So?"
Another time, my sister approached me in the hall and told me briefly, "Tiffany, that high school boy will give us a ride home from school, but you have to take off that stupid sweatshirt." I popped my Bubblicious and replied coolly, "Well, smell you later." NOTE: This part of the story is not true, but I thought it might be mildly entertaining.
I grew up an avid Adam Sandler fan in both the film and musical sense. My friends and I quoted Billy Madison and Happy Gilmore lines well into our 20's. I borrowed my dad's Sandler CD's and barricaded myself in my bedroom, laughing until I was out of breath at Lunch Lady Land, the Thanksgiving Song, and What the Hell Happened to Me?, among many others. As an adult, I strongly recommend you buy his album What's Your Name?, and you may wholeheartedly thank me later. During one of my countless nights listening to Adam Sandler's music and trying to figure out what he meant during what I now know to be his very filthy songs, I noted a little gem by the name of "Red Hooded Sweatshirt," a song he wrote as an ode to his red hoodie about their many adventures together. From using his hoodie as a pillow on a nighttime bus ride to feeling guilt over removing it for a shirts and skins basketball game, Adam paid homage to his hoodie with his smooth vocals and charming wit. I remember laughing along with the jokes in the song, but I honestly thought Adam Sandler didn't know shit about committing yourself to a sweatshirt.
My point is, that sweatshirt gave me a metaphorical pair of brass ones. I was never a child that clung to a security blanket in the common outlets: I didn't need a blanket, stuffed animal, or pacifier the way other kids did; those things never did anything for me. But I guess I found an odd sense of control and confidence with that sweatshirt, two qualities that eluded me as I began junior high and high school. Somewhere along the way, I remember someone joking about "that sweatshirt Tiffany wouldn't take off," and for the first time, I didn't brush it off like before. I wondered if maybe wearing the same sweatshirt every day actually was something worthy of disapproval. I don't mean to put too much emphasis on people poking fun at Tiffany & The Sweatshirt, because it really is laughable, but I guess I was at that age when you start to look around and compare yourself to what the rest of the world is doing. And the rest of the world was not wearing a giant-sized sweatshirt every single day.
I don't remember exactly when I stopped wearing the sweatshirt, but I remember folding it up and putting it in my dresser, reserving it for cold weather only. And then it sat in my dresser for a long time as I bought more knitted sweaters with trendier patterns that actually fit me, and I think I finally decided to donate it to charity or some rubbish as I entered high school. I really don't remember what happened to the sweatshirt, but I have tried to look for it in my old clothes during trips back home and have not been able to find it. Getting rid of it has been my life's greatest mistake, more so than the time me, my sister, and some of our friends snuck into Mexico while our mom slept at the beach house we were visiting. I really messed up good when I got rid of something that was such a constant part of my life for a long time; besides, I think it would fit me just right these days and it's a shame I don't have it anymore.
In writing this story, I actually found out that Jimmy'Z is a clothing brand which, from the looks of it, mostly deals in surfer/skater/beach apparel. I like to remember it as a walking advertisement for some bad ass auto body shop, but that's irrelevant. Scouring the Internet as I have done today, I can not find the same design of my sweatshirt anywhere, but the Jimmy'Z website offers an email address, to which I intend to compose a letter asking if they could help me find the one I loved so much. I truly hope that I can be reunited with my sweatshirt one day, my Precious, my Rosebud; I see it as a modern tale of love lost and then found again, a heart bubbling over with adoration, stringed instrumental music, and aqua cotton.
Seriously, guys, it was a really bitchin' sweatshirt.
