The Disappearing Coat

Meant to mention this yesterday - blood was 4.8 yesterday. Was reminded this morning, because the blood was 4.8 again this morning....

Anyhow - bit more of my usual Stubborn Bastard today - had coffee for breakfast, little bit of walking, am about to get back on the bike, yadda yadda yadda, so awoohoo, and fuck you to SBF, which is always reassuring.

Another busy day though, so hardly time to worry about being a Disappearing Man. Then I met up with d for a high-protein dinner, courtesy of Nandos, and a Friday night Adventure, which turned into a nice, relaxed wander round Notting Hill.
"Ohh, look at that," said d. It was one of those retro clothes shops that are scattered higgledy-piggledy throughout Britain. "I've always wanted to have a look in one of these places, but we're always on a bus at the time."
I checked.
"We're not on a bus right now," I said, once I was sure of my facts.
"Oh," she said. "No." She grew a grin that made me fall in love with her all over again, and pushed open the door.
It was almost exactly like you'd imagine a retro clothes shop would be, only classier and better. d wandered the aisles, fingering fabrics and sighing in appreciation. I wandered the opposite aisle, which turned out to be menswear.

I love wandering through this sort of place, but I've never considered buying anything in one of them before. It's just not something that you think about when you're a fundamentally fat fuck - all the clothes are second hand, and it simply doesn't occur to you that anyone else, especially a generation or so ago, was ever quite the same size as you. And the idea of taking of your existing clothes to try stuff on, in the absolute concrete certainty that what's going to happen is that you'll be standing there, looking like ten pounds of crap in a five pound bag, with your certainties confirmed and your self-esteem shattered and crumbled round your ankles...it's soul-destroying.

I know, I know, women everywhere who read this are going "You don't know you're fucking born, mate..." - and this is of course true - the humiliation regularly meted out to women in the process of simply buying stuff to cover their bodies is far and away beyond what any Disappearing Man has ever had to cope with. All I'm saying is that I went in to browse and vaguely fantasise.

"Oh, baby, look at this," said d.
This was a coat. A grey, grown-up, beautiful long coat. Wool and cashmere blend, styled, lined and perfect.
"Yeah, 's'lovely, Honey," I said. She held it out to me, looking expectant. I had the soul-destroying monologue in my head...and then I looked at d. At her face, and her eyes, and look of sparkly expectation...and I took the coat from her.

I slipped one arm in, and bent it - normally, you'll know if a coat is going to git when you bend your arm. I was expecting the barely-bend of groaning material...but no. It bent comfortably, so I slid the other arm in. That worked too. I pulled the coat on fully.

Now I'd be lying if I said it fit perfectly. It didn't quite do up, but it fit well enough to make me look at myself in the mirror.
"Holy...Hell," I said.

I took it out of the shop for £20.
Longer-term readers will remember the saga of buying jeans that were too small, in order to Disappear into them.

This is different.
This is not optimism, or hope, or foolishness made manifest. This is progress personified. This is the death of absolute fear. This is having a moment of ultimate self-justification, of looking at yourself in the mirror and not loathing what you see, and knowing that progress has got you this far, and will get you further, with work and time and the resurgence of the Stubborn Bastard Within.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Disappearing Coat.
And now it's mine.