Last year, I briefly considered buying a jumpsuit. I wasn’t totally committed to the idea, but it’s fair to say I was jumpsuit-curious, enough so that I looked online for a polyester double-knit garment with a built-in belt. It needed to be something I’d feel comfortable unzipping to my sternum on special occasions, such as, I don’t know, rocketing across the Snake River Canyon … or bringing down the house during my Saturday night encore at Caesars Palace … or sipping a scotch in front of a roaring fire in a Vail ski lodge while Suzanne Somers runs her fingers through my chest hair.
I don’t know who I thought I was in that fleeting moment — I don’t even have chest hair — but big tech followed my breadcrumbs and drew its own conclusions. For a month, I was blitzed with targeted ads from the male romper industry. One particular company, Romperjack, was under the mistaken impression I was in the market for a skimpy, tapered-fit onesie. No shame in the romper game, but this body is long past being romper-ready.
The point is, one decision does not necessarily define you — unless that one decision is masterminding the Tate-LaBianca murders based on your interpretation of a Beatles album, in which case it does define you. When I look back on October, which, for Eli Drinkwitz, marked the end of an era of limitless possibilities and unconditional love, I keep coming back to one choice, which I hope was not indicative of the real him.
