Fast, Fluffy, and Furious
I’m usually pretty organized. The kind of person with alphabetized spice racks and a backup phone charger in every bag. But every once in a while, life throws me a curveball—like a last-minute call from a PR client asking me to meet them outside the Del Mar Thoroughbred Club.
Yes, outside. Not during racing season, thank god, so “casual” was apparently acceptable. Still, anytime a meeting takes place near turf, an expensive restaurant, or something that requires binoculars, I brace myself.
Now, I’ve been caught off guard before. Once, I had to pull into Torrey Pines Golf Club just to buy a sweatshirt on my way to another “casual” Del Mar event. Let me say this plainly: no sane person buys apparel at a pro shop unless they enjoy setting fire to their money. But I was cold and desperate, which—let’s be honest—is the foundation of most of my fashion choices.
For context, I gave up gambling, horseraces, golf, and my last marriage at the same time. They share some eerie similarities: painfully long to master, expensive, and they both make you feel like you’re failing all the time no matter how hard you try.
Anyway, I arrived at the pro shop parking lot in my “between” car: a 1984 white Honda Accord that ran beautifully but looked like it had survived a twister. It was sun-faded, dent-kissed, and humming with the faint aroma of old upholstery and humility. The lot was packed with glossy status symbols—Bentleys, Porsches, the kind of cars that come with names you have to pronounce in Italian.
Parked dead center in front (yes, the pro shop had a circular drive in front, because of course it did) was an Aston Martin and leaning against it was a wide man in salmon-colored pants. He had a white sweater tied around his shoulders like he was auditioning for a country club-themed remake of Dirty Dancing. He bent over to tie his gleaming saddle shoes, presenting the kind of visual that said, “My socks cost more than your rent.”
I circled once, saw no available spaces, and made a calculated decision: park illegally right behind him, run in, buy the cheapest sweatshirt possible, and pray the universe owed me one.
I hopped out and ran up the steps. I didn’t lock it. I figured if someone did steal it, I’d just buy them dinner.
Inside the pro shop, the cheapest sweatshirt was a size XL in an uninspired shade of guilt gray. Price tag: $175. It was the fabric equivalent of gas station sushi—expensive and guaranteed to disappoint. I slapped down my credit card, mumbled something about "needing a receipt for tax," and sprinted back out.
By then, two very manager-looking men were circling my car like it had insulted their stock portfolio. They had the kind of expressions usually reserved for oil stains and public school auctions. I waved my overpriced hoodie like a white flag of gentrified surrender, smiled sweetly, and got in.
As I pulled away, I caught one of the men mouthing, “Did she just pay $175 to look homeless?”
Yes. Yes, I did.
But at least I was warm.
And hey—it still cost less than therapy.
