Fleece -- wonder fabric or overpriced unstylish trend? I spent the first eighteen years of my life unaware that the fabric even existed. Yet my confrontation with it has been a struggle. It is a tale of a woman, a fabric and the gulf of ill will dividing them.
The origins of my fleecial experience date back to the day Dad and I pilgrimaged to Nestor's Wilderness Outfitters, a DOC freshman trip "what to pack" list firmly in hand. Walking around the store, I was like Chunk from The Goonies finding that big guy with the deformed face. Foreign objects like hiking packs and snowshoes were leering at me from every wall. My outdoor skills consisted solely of knowing how to roast a marshmallow, and the salesman working on commission knew it.
The matter of internal versus external frame sorted out, we broached the critical question of clothing for this three-day survival mission. I received the sermon on why cotton on the hike could be lethal. "You know," said the cunning salesman, "you really ought to have a pair of these." A glowing aura illuminated his face as he reverentially held up what looked to me like the ugliest pair of pants I ever laid eyes on. "Fleece!" He cried.
As far as I knew fleece was strictly a sheep thing. I leaned forward to examine, only to be cast back by the overbearing price tag associated with said heinous pants. "Pay that much for that ... that ... bastard cousin of sweatpants?" Horror filling the salesman's face, he informed me that sweatpants were cotton. He was back on the "cotton is the devil" tangent. Perhaps he just wore me down, but in a move defying logic, I purchased the pants.
While they proved useful on my DOC trip, the real shock of fleece arrived a week later. I began to realize from the throngs of fleece-clad upperclassmen filtering into campus, to them this ugly fabric was not utilitarian, it was fashion! What was to me the seamy underside of Dartmouth camouflage was a widely accepted wardrobe essential. It was a bitter pill.
For a full year here, my distaste for fleece was matched only by my revulsion of terrycloth activewear. I'd come to accept the oft-debated "Dartmouth look" that so many students have. The urge to burn the five L.L. Bean catalogues that monthly fill my HB quickly subsided. But fleece vests, fleece gloves, fleece pullovers, fleece hats -- they're so unstylish! Not to mention expensive. You're getting fleeced in more ways than one.
And then we come to the unpardonable fashion sin -- the bright canary yellow fleece. I once had hi-top Reeboks that color, but it was 1984. What could be the excuse for such a fabric/color combo? Perhaps it was on sale.
Not that I'm the diva of fashion, but I was quite staunchly anti-fleece ... until the day when it all changed, the day I purchased the fleece gloves that have yet to leave my side. Fleece and I have made peace with each other.
What caused this turnaround? Perhaps it was that fateful day in Physics 3 when Professor Kidder unraveled the mystery of fleece's magic insulation powers. Read closely, kids. It's not everyday The Dartmouth tackles such weighty issues. Here's the reason -- the air trapped in fleece is a poor conductor of heat, so your body heat isn't appreciably leaving or the outside cold coming in. Gasp!
Reassuring as it is to know your clothes have scientific basis, I doubt the idea of enshrouding myself in science made my pants more appealing. No, I fear that after months of denial, I have to admit that I've become a fleece fanatic because, well, it's practical. It may have un-chic bumpiness, but it's the lightest, warmest substance known to man. I can't say I hope that fleece makes its debut on the Paris runways, but I do now understand why it has joined the ranks of flannel, denim and white baseball caps. Whether it be a passing trend or a genuinely loved piece of practicality, until we run out of sheep (or the machine fleece comes from), fleece seems an ingrained and acceptable part of Dartmouth Winter existence.
