The Museum of Poor Choices

Let me try to explain why I own a velour, zip-front jacket with 3-D cars motoring along a felted superhighway that looks like something your grandma, channeling Iris Apfel, wore to afternoon bingo at the nursing home.

I begged my mother to buy this for me when I was around 16. Yes, at 16, I wanted to dress like Bea Arthur. My mother said something like: "that is awful."

I probably babysat just enough times to get the money - if only GoFundMe had existed then. When I went back to the store and dug through the geriatric department rounders to find it, I recall having some doubts, or I hope I did. Was it cool or hideous? A question I have asked myself so many times on the verge of a potentially regretful purchase. Cool and hideous are opposite sides of the same risk-taking coin. But I was committed, bought it and wore it to school the next day with a confidence that withered as I received zero compliments, and the tiny cars dug into my back leaning against a desk chair. I don't think I wore it again, but my brothers, tempted by the allure of untouched micro machines, cut off a bunch of the cars and entertained themselves for at least 5 minutes. Despite multiple parties confirming the jacket is, in fact, hideous, I cannot get rid of it. So the coat remains, tucked at the back of my childhood bedroom closet. Traffic has waned, the highway needs repair, but this belongs in a museum of poor sartorial choices, otherwise who would believe it existed?