I turned 38 earlier this month. An unremarkable age, on the whole, although it does have one bit of significance. When I graduated high school I set out into the world; when I turned 19 I asked for a man’s coat. My mom bought me a Carhartt duck coat[1] from an outlet shop in BFE connected to a gas station. I still have that coat, which means that I have now owned it for half of my life.
That Carhartt coat has been with me through a lot. I drank many a beer by many a fire on many a cold mountain night wearing that coat. It would get me through two winters in Chicago and serve me well on my return to the Rust Belt (I did add a heavier Carhartt duck coat). It is still holding strong 19 years later. It is a little worse for wear, but then I am too. There is wear at the end of the sleeves, probably because it is a bit too big. And it is a little faded. But I think it might have another 19 years in it.
[1] I picked up the term from Cormac McCarthy’s great Border trilogy.
Hillbilly Highways 