The Joke about my Zara Jacket

Impulse. Purchases. Of . Doom.

I’m not the WORST consumer. I set a limit. There’s an invisible bar slashed across my savings account.

If my money depletes and gets near enough to it, I begin to panic. If it passes it, I know I have reached nuclear proportions of disaster. Someone has pushed the red button that sets off the mushroom cloud of earnings. I take a step back. Cease all purchases and desist.

But I’m also not the best.

When I get stressed, I buy things.

Like every good millennial, shopping, and the instant gratification which comes with it, soothes me. I am in control,  I am independent and asserting my power. MONEY MONEY MONEY BITCHES.

Really, it comes from a deep well of insecurity that would better benefit from an act of  spirituality or some altruistic gesture.

But we all know it never gets that far when the thought process begins.

It’s usually, “What’ll make me look cooler? Thinner? What’ll make me feel important? How do I keep up with the rest of the people who clearly have their shit together?”

So I often run out and buy a cheap imitation of a designer look I had seen on pinterest via Olivia Pallermo or Hanna Maggs.

So, when I ill advisedly walked into a Zara in Mamilla mall one sunny afternoon, I did a very silly thing, and fell head over heels for the trendiest new trend.

L’amour. That glittery feeling when you’ve found your favorite book quote wrapped in silk. “Look at me, these are my fabulous internal words coming to sartorial life.” That jacket describes the essence of my cool and my intellectual capabilities and is the height of subculture. It is better than ironic. It is elegant and is in fact irony grown into sophisticated ennui.

I went straight for that enticing, provocative bomber jacket. I went straight for its silky puffed out sleeves and the promise of its baggy teasing, the kind that drapes the skinny girls and fools onlookers into thinking the waif underneath isn’t so waify. But, wait for it. Punch line. SHE IS!

In my head, I reasoned that I would be, as Sophie Kinsella says so well through her protagonist Rebecca Bloomwood, The Girl in the Silky Green Bomber Jacket.

Everyone would admire it. It would be a great talking piece. It would go great with my white loafers, gold or beig-y eye shadow and a purple, berry lip.

I would be Zoella revamped in Jewess. Ok, also, maybe twice her size.

I had to have this bomber jacket.

I didn’t think twice about the particular shade of green.

I like green. It suits my skin tone. I have many things in green. Subconsciously I must harbor a secret love for it because many of my things are GREEN.

I bought it. Paid in two tashlumim. YIKES.

(Never again.)

And I was euphoric.

On cloud nine.


And people noticed! I got so many admiring looks, so many wondrous stares.

Look, look, they can’t take their eyes off me.

I am dazzling.

Look at how they raise their brows as I pass!

I am soooooo pulling this off.

I am Vogue. I am Anna Wintour.

I am Lorde.

I am Florence Welch.

I sizzle.

 I challenge.

I am bold.

Even the soldier in front of me at a bus line admired the jacket. He was just staring at it. YASSSSSSS. I was right to buy this jacket.

Ah, L’amour


My first walkabout out with said jacket was a success.

Until of course, I walked into my friend’s house.

She loved it. Said it was very nice. Fancy and edgy.

I hung the precious thing on her door and left it to regally preside above all the other lesser garments in the vicinity.

Her husband came home, and lo.

He noticed the silky green bomber jacket on his door.

“Is  that yours, Gila?”


“I mean, I thought it was mine for a second.”



My friend’s husband works Kevah (a permanent position) in the army.  A creeping discomfort slithered down my spine. OH NO. MY FASHION DOMINANCE…IS IT ALL FALSE? My kingdom…DOES IT STAND ON PILLARS OF SAND?

“Haven’t you noticed?”

“Noticed…what?” I gulped, fearful my money had been spent on some fashion flop. What did he know that I didn’t?

“It’s madim. Army issued winter jackets. Well ,colder weather jackets. “

Oh dear g-d. My mind raced back to the raised eyebrows of all the cynical and restless soldiers waiting for buses at binyanei hauma. Had they been sniggering with disbelief at my absurd display?

And, then it froze on the memory of  the one standing in front of me at the bus line. UGH.

“But but but…it’s darker. Silky.”

“Ya, it looks like they do when they’re  inside out.”

“But but…my pockets have zippers, not buttons.”

“True, but that’s not much of a difference.”

If there was a facepalm big enough to encapsulate my embarrassment, it would have had hit me hard enough to have gotten me flat on the floor, my fashion spirit crushed to oblivion.

So I wasn’t The Girl in the Silky Green Bomber Jacket. I was the Idiot in the Expensive Inside Out Army Jacket.

He told me not to worry when he saw how devastated I was. He was sure he was over thinking it. No one would notice.

If. Only.


A few days later I was scrolling through my news feed.

I stumbled upon a post from חיליים מצייצים (Soldiers Tweeting. Actually that’s a weird translation. IDFers? Tweets?).

Oh someone noticed.

There, to my embarrassment, was a meme in Hebrew.

Kylie Jenner was wearing a version of the Zara bomber jacket.

And the Hebrew caption above it  was some army inside joke I didn’t get about madim aleph.

Ah, the money I spent and the ill begotten euphoria and coolness I felt.

That’ll teach me.


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