Why I’ll Never Own a Camouflage Jacket

I’m not a hunter or any sort of manly woodsman, but if I was I might own a camouflage jacket.

And if I owned a camouflage jacket, I would often say to my partner, whom I love, “Have you seen my camouflage jacket?”

Because I often lose all my stuff around the house and ask her if she’s seen it on a regular basis, this would seem like a routine query and she would absentmindedly say, “No.”

I would pause for effect and then say “GOOD THAT MEANS IT’S WORKING!”

After a few moments I would erupt into cackles of delight, filled with the joy known only by the practitioners of the honored tradition of Dad Jokes.

She would groan and inform me that this joke is inherently, objectively unfunny — just like it was the last twenty times I told it.

But I wouldn’t be able to stop making this joke. Its power would be too strong, too alluring. Despite promising that this was for real the last time, I’d return again and again to the shimmering mirage of that irresistible punchline.

Eventually she wouldn’t be able to take it anymore. I’d come home from work one day and find all my stuff out on the curb. On top of it would be an all-too-visible camouflage jacket, with a note pinned to the lapel.

The note would read: “Yes, I have seen your camouflage jacket. No, it’s not working. Goodbye.”

I would collapse under the weight of sudden heartbreak and spend the next twelve years of my life listening to country music and regretting every decision that had led up to that moment. Eventually, through a lot of therapy, I would learn to forgive myself and find happiness within.

Still I would always carry the aching knowledge that I had lost the love of the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known.

And that’s why I’ll never own a camouflage jacket.

Why I’ll Never Own a Camouflage Jacket

May 29, 2018 | 2 minute read

camo

I’m not a hunter or any sort of manly woodsman, but if I was I might own a camouflage jacket.

And if I owned a camouflage jacket, I would often say to my partner, whom I love, “Have you seen my camouflage jacket?”

Because I often lose all my stuff around the house and ask her if she’s seen it on a regular basis, this would seem like a routine query and she would absentmindedly say, “No.”

I would pause for effect and then say “GOOD THAT MEANS IT’S WORKING!”

After a few moments I would erupt into cackles of delight, filled with the joy known only by the practitioners of the honored tradition of Dad Jokes.

She would groan and inform me that this joke is inherently, objectively unfunny — just like it was the last twenty times I told it.

But I wouldn’t be able to stop making this joke. Its power would be too strong, too alluring. Despite promising that this was for real the last time, I’d return again and again to the shimmering mirage of that irresistible punchline.

Eventually she wouldn’t be able to take it anymore. I’d come home from work one day and find all my stuff out on the curb. On top of it would be an all-too-visible camouflage jacket, with a note pinned to the lapel.

The note would read: “Yes, I have seen your camouflage jacket. No, it’s not working. Goodbye.”

I would collapse under the weight of sudden heartbreak and spend the next twelve years of my life listening to country music and regretting every decision that had led up to that moment. Eventually, through a lot of therapy, I would learn to forgive myself and find happiness within.

Still I would always carry the aching knowledge that I had lost the love of the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known.

And that’s why I’ll never own a camouflage jacket.

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