Au Revoir Old Friend, The Pleather Was All Mine
Image Source: Adobe Photo Stock
While those still enduring harsh winters back east give an eye roll to the lot of us over here complaining about our frigid 50°nights, we’re feeling a change of seasons already here in Los Angeles which always inspires some shopping. So, if you find yourself looking to purchase a spring jacket to add a new lil’ gem to your wardrobe for nights out on the town, let me share a little wisdom with you—confidence can get you in the door and pleather never lasts forever.
Two years ago, while attending an event at The London Hotel in West Hollywood, after not being able to go out into the world because of pandemic restrictions, the universe reminded me of this verity. I was thrilled to finally attend a film screening again, one that was followed by a cocktail reception with the filmmaker; I hadn’t realized just how much I missed these events. In that late afternoon, I eagerly opened my closet to select my night-out attire, a ritual I had to reacquaint myself with post pandemic. I pulled out my date-night jeans, strappy silk top, knee-high boots, and my favorite red pleather moto jacket. A jacket so amazing that if you don’t already have your own confidence, some was tucked away in its pockets for you. It was my go-to for more than 6 years, and even though it was far from a splurge, it was very vogue.
I’d owned a handful of other pleather jackets, so I was no stranger to them sometimes deteriorating and I was hoping this wasn’t the case yet with this one. Since it had been stowed in the wardrobe for 2 years, I promptly gave it a once-over finding only one little crack on the back collar. As a pang of anxiety gave way to momentary apprehension, I simply brushed it off and threw it on. My Uber was already curbside, there was no time for worrying.
After a lovely conversation with my driver on our ability to intermingle in the flesh again, we arrived at the hotel and said our goodbyes. As I was about to close the door, he kindly gave a compliment on my flair for fashion spotlighting my little red jacket; I felt chic. Walking past the valets, I entered the hotel lobby going straight to the screening room door. Unfortunately, the screening had already begun, and this particular door opened right next to the screen. I looked to the concierge for guidance on where I could enter without disturbing anyone. We chatted as he escorted me to the rear entrance of the theatre and finding a spot in the very back, I escaped into Ivan Grbovic’s film, Drunken Birds.
The credits began rolling as guests trickled back to a private room for a cocktail reception with the filmmaker. While waiting in line at the champagne bar, I noticed the usual glances I’ll often receive when wearing something stylish. My confidence was solidified, and I felt quite amazing as I made my way to an open table where I saw an old acquaintance. While we were catching up, a group of women asked to join us.
Several minutes had passed when I felt myself getting warm, so I began to remove my jacket. As I was pulling my right arm out, I started to see a flurry of red pieces cluttered all around me. I was trying to process what those bits were as my ivory upholstered chair was now completely covered in them, so too was the floor at my feet. It was my pleather jacket, my beloved red pleather jacket that was apparently dying at this cocktail party.
It was all around me and immediately I felt quite embarrassed. After it was completely off, I tried to fold it so the red outer side was facing the seat hoping others around me wouldn’t notice. As heartbreak set in, I discreetly pushed the pieces already on the floor further under the table. Now feeling very self-conscious, I was trying to strategize how I’d get up from my seat when it came time to go without leaving a trail of pleather ash in my wake.
My conversational skills helped to prolong an exit from the table, a desperate attempt to keep my flurry little secret. When our table had emptied, all except two women seated next to me who still appeared quite settled in, I had to make a choice. I could either sit there awkwardly trying to insert myself into their intimate conversation or do what I do best and use honesty to my advantage. Gently lifting my sad little jacket, a show and tell if you will, I tried to retain some dignity by confessing my situation to these two strangers. Feeling a bit insecure and vulnerable, an emotion that never transpired when donning this old friend, I was delightfully surprised this little red jacket wasn’t quite done working in my favor. They too had experienced a pleather mess like this and were the shoulders I needed to lean on. Raising the last of our champagne in honor of my fabulous jacket, we laughed together in solidarity for the pleather jacket widows that we were.
When making my way through the lobby to meet my Uber driver, the cold night air blowing into the hotel forced me to slip my jacket on one last time, our last hurrah if you will. Spotting the concierge immediately after doing so, I felt the need to apprise him of my situation (and to save a little face) sharing, “Hey, funny thing I should mention…” His response will stay with me forever, “Oh really? I just thought it was a designer jacket I hadn’t seen yet—you wore it so confidently.” So, there you have it folks, confidence can get you inside one of the poshest hotels in LA even when your jacket looks like it came out of the trash.
