As I approached the Kohl’s store in the Northgate Mall today, the automatic doors slid open and the out-rushing air carried with it the distinct smell of new clothes. At an almost pheromone-like level, it excited me and made me want to buy. I guess I associate whatever causes that smell (is it the sizing in the fabric?) with happy occasions – birthdays, Christmas and back-to-school shopping.
My purchase of clothes these days is somewhat limited to essentials. We are watching the budget and, more often than not, I end up deciding that I really don’t need whatever I take off the rack. That doesn’t mean I don’t shop. I still enjoy looking for something that pleases me and imagine buying it. I plan how it will fit into my wardrobe. I scrunch a sleeve to see if the fabric wrinkles too easily. I may even try it on. But it usually stays in the store.
I do like wearing new clothes, and I can remember not only where I have bought nearly everything in my closet, but when and why. I am also always looking for the perfect – whatever. Over the years, I have found the perfect ski jacket, the perfect leather coat, the perfect work slacks, and the perfect penny loafers. But, back when I was 12, I was on the hunt for the perfect shirt.
It was 1968, and my mother and I were taking a road trip up the East Coast. We did the historical tour: starting in Richmond and working our way through Jamestown, Williamsburg, Norfolk, Washington, DC, Philadelphia, New York and Boston.
In New York, we went to a Broadway show, featuring Pearl Bailey and Cab Calloway in an all-black production of Hello Dolly. The next day, my mother gave me a choice: We could either see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, or we could go to Brooks Brothers.
Now, that may not seem like too difficult a decision, but I was torn. I mean, that was a lot of shapely legs, glimpses of nether regions, and dozens of perfectly-aligned breasts. On the other hand, I had had a longing for a particular pink button-down dress shirt. I had wanted one ever since I had seen a picture of my boyhood hero, Jean-Claude Killy, wearing one while skiing down a slalom course in Val d’Isere, France. In the photo, he is wearing dark blue stretch pants and that oh-so-cool shirt. I had to have one, too.
Unfortunately, pink dress shirts were scarce back home in Marin County. Maybe you could have found one in San Francisco, but this was way before the Macy’s on Union Square started catering to the fashionable male crowd.
My decision made, we took a taxi to Madison Avenue and 44th Street and entered the biggest clothing store I had ever seen. We went up several floors and came upon more button-down Brooks Brothers shirts than I thought existed in the world. Of course they had a pink one in my size. I felt like a coin collector who had finally acquired a mint-condition 1804 Morgan silver dollar.
Back home, I couldn’t wait to wear my pink shirt, but doing so at school was problematic. First, there was the color, which would cause no end of ribald comment. Second, the shirt featured what we middle school boys referred to as a “fruit loop,” a play on words after the cereal of the same name. A fruit loop was a little tag of fabric on the back of the shirt, just below the yoke. I’m not sure what it was for. We assumed it was for hanging the shirt. If that’s the case, it was a poor design.
Anyway, the game at school was to sneak up behind your victim, grab his fruit loop and yank it off. Why? I have no idea. Sometimes it would come away cleanly. More often, it would rip a gaping hole in the back of the shirt that would have to be sewn up by a patient mother. There was no way I was going to subject my new purchase to such juvenile destruction.
My shirt made its first public appearance the following Easter, a holiday that our family usually spent at Lake Tahoe. We would decorate hats with flowers and knick-knacks from the craft store in Tahoe City and then wear our bonnets while skiing at Granlibakken, a tiny hill just outside of town. The highlight of Easter at Granlibakken was always the fun race.
Rusty, the Norwegian owner, would set a wide giant slalom course on the 300-foot-long main slope and nearly everyone participated. To make things interesting, you had to accomplish a task at each gate. One year, you had to sip from two paper cups filled with 7-Up (champagne for the adults) held in either hand – not easy when you’re breathing hard and the altitude is making the carbonated beverages even more bubbly. This year, we were supposed to pick up a red apple at each gate and transfer it to an Easter basket.
Now I was not the best skier on the hill, but there are times when being low to the ground and having nimble fingers are more important than raw speed, and this was one of them. As I flew down the course, I grabbed at the apples with my bare hands, my fingers just brushing the corn snow. I took a big chance by not slowing down at each turn – if I missed, I would have to climb back up – but this was an all-or-nothing run for me. Pick up an apple with the left hand, place it into the basket held in the right. Then transfer the basket to the left hand between gates to free up the right for the next apple. It all had to work seamlessly.
Somehow, it did, and I won. I can’t recall if received a prize other than bragging rights for the rest of the day, but that was enough for me. It would be nice to recount how that race eventually led to a spot on the U.S. Olympic team, but of course, it didn’t. However, for that one sunny Easter in Tahoe, I was top dog at Granlibakken and proudly wearing the same pink shirt as Jean-Claude Killy.
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