.44 Caliber Couture

Since we’ve moved to western Montana, new friends have urged me to learn to shoot.
We’re no hunters, but when my husband is out taking snapshots for his wildlife photography gallery I might need to protect myself from a hungry mama bear. What if, while dashing out the back door to empty the garbage, I were to run head-first into Mrs. Yogi foraging through last night’s leftovers in order to feed Boo-Boo, her cub?

I didn’t need much encouragement, since it has long been one of my ardent desires to holster a weapon for sport. Forget the Imperial Yo-Yo; when I was a kid I practiced the quick draw and perfected the twirl into my replica Wyatt Earp belt. So when Brad and I met a couple our age, both of whom knew what they were doing at the shooting range and wanted to teach us, I was all over it.

I dressed warmly, since the noon high temperature was 39 degrees that day and the sky sunless. I layered with long underwear, pulled on a long-sleeved Henley and topped off with a plaid, flannel shirt and quilted vest in coordinating colors. Forest green ultra-thin leather gloves that discreetly picked up the deep green in the plaid, a ponytail through the back hole of a sage green, billed cap – and my ensemble was shoot-suitable.

I felt appearance-pulled together until we stopped in the dirt lot at the shooting range and out hopped the wife – we’ll call her “Sara” – of our instructor. From the moment she pivoted around the passenger-side door, I was unable to concentrate on the lesson. I wanted her jacket.

I thought I’d let loose of my clothing compulsion when we traded suburbia for sylvan, yet Sara’s choice of outdoor outerwear was stunning – the perfect army green with zipper pockets, elastic band circling her trim waistline and petite wrists: she was wearing that quintessential combination of bomber and safari in hunting hues. It is feminine; it is flattering; all THE while, it reeks of recreation.

No sooner had her feet touched ground than my adoring husband, who otherwise compliments only my appearance, and I exclaimed in perfect unison, “I love your jacket!”

There is only one thing I want now more than my own gun and holster: that jealousy-driven jacket. Whereas my husband came home and jumped on the Internet to compare gun prices and ammo loads, I dashed upstairs and leapt on Cabela’s and other Web sites to try to locate her apparel. Hours later, sans cyber success, I had to surrender.
Serendipitously that very evening, Sara called and suggested we all get together for pizza. What would she be wearing? I found myself questioning every pair of jeans I shimmied into while getting dressed. I was relinquishing my resolve to overcome wardrobe envy – one of the very reasons I had welcomed retirement to a rural community where people didn’t agonize over such superficialities.

When I opened the front door, I sighed. Sara looked lovely, but not in colors that would flatter me! No sooner had I relaxed, however, than I looked ahead in the pizza parlor’s parking lot to see that jacket slung over her arm.

“You’re wearing that wonderful jacket again,” I chirped as we both entered the ladies’ room and faced the mirror. I inhaled and told myself that I had nothing to lose and everything to gain by confessing my sin of greed. “I have jacket envy; I covet your jacket!” I blurted out, risking everything.

“Goodness gracious! If they still had one, I’d get it for you!” she generously offered. This implied past purchase that would no longer be available to shoppers.
“Where did you buy it?” I feigned indifference as I reapplied my lipstick; just making small talk.

“Wal-Mart, about three years ago.” What a relief. I had to let it go.
I was hoping for intervention when I told Brad that Sara had found her jacket at Wal-Mart three years ago. I needed a steady voice to put a bullet through the heart of my obsession with another woman’s wardrobe – you know, something like, “Honey, I like your jacket much better!” Instead, Brad loaded my retail revolver with even heavier, albeit accurate ammunition.

“It’s a great jacket,” he averred. I’m on my way to the local Wal-Mart to see if it’s remotely possible that they have just one tucked away in back inventory.

No matter how far into the wilderness you go, you cannot deny that a certain style is still important; you can pretend to turn a blind eye, but ultimately there is fashion opportunity anywhere you care to see it. Unless I locate that jacket, I can’t shoot chic.