I bought it
in the usual chic little shop in the usual chic lobby just before checking out
of the always chic Four Seasons Hotel in Sydney, at the beginning of a chic Christmas
cruise of Australia and New Zealand in December of 2002. It was made of woven,
black kangaroo hide, a leather with which I was not familiar and which the
clerk said would last forever. Charmed by this mystique of composition and
durability, I put it on immediately and it’s been my favorite belt ever since,
accompanying me on all my many trips since then to many exotic (and chic)
places in the world. I lost it once, and ran out immediately and bought a black
woven Ralph Lauren one to replace it. But the Ralph Lauren was thicker and
nowhere near as pliable so when I found the kangaroo in the bottom of a
carry-on bag where I had apparently neglected it in my hurried effort to unpack
from some other trip, I was so pleased that I put it back on the Levis I was
wearing and banished the Ralph Lauren to a lonely bin (with belts I could no
longer wear) in the dark depths of my closet. Since then, I’ve worn the
kangaroo almost all the time, even when I’m wearing brown trousers, on the
theory that black, or at least this black, goes with everything. (In truth,
I’ve reached an age where I really no longer care.)
When I bought it, the kangaroo had
more holes than I needed, resting comfortably around my waist somewhere in the
last third of a row of holes reinforced behind with an extra piece of non-braided
black leather. Through the years, the kangaroo has expanded and contracted as
my weight has changed, but it gradually settled with the bright-brass, buckle-tongue
solidly inserted in the third hole from the inner end, where my weight (and my
waist) stabilized at a level at which my doctor originally feigned mild
surprise, then frowned upon, and ultimately informed me was “obese” on that
hateful Body Mass Index. Uncompromising as this stubborn manifestation of
self-delusion was, and almost painfully uncomfortable the result, I refused to
move the belt to a looser girth, and the strain on the hole became so great
that it gradually opened further, pulling at the leather on the leading edge of
the hole and threatening to rip it out entirely. When I sat to watch
television, I was forced to loosen the belt so I could breathe, which took some
temporary strain off the hole. But each morning, when I put the belt back on, I
took a deep breath and lodged the buckle-tongue in that same unhappy third hole
from the end. And so it went. Until finally, my doctor’s pleading admonitions,
my unattractive reflection in the mirror, and a resurgence of determination
toward control of my life pushed me into a Medi-fast diet program that helped
me to lose 38 pounds in 60 days, just five pounds short of my ultimate goal. As
the weight came off, the kangaroo grew looser around my shrinking belly and I’m
sure it was greatly relieved (as was I) when I lost ten pounds and the
buckle-tongue could be moved out of the third hole to the second from the inner
end. I almost shouted out my triumph. The kangaroo rested happily there for
several weeks until I found, to my surprise and incredible delight, at a weight
loss of 20 pounds, that it could be moved again, to the last hole from the
inner end. I was now out of holes. But I was happy. And the kangaroo seemed
happy too, almost as though it had played some essential role in my
achievement. But now, at 38 pounds lost, the kangaroo is too loose again and
has had to be moved to a place beyond the holes, beyond the reinforcement on
the back, into no-hole, virgin territory. If it rests there for any extended
time, I’m sure the buckle-tongue will cut a new and familiar groove between the
woven strands of leather, but without reinforcement, this position could
threaten the kangaroo’s very existence. Alas. Success sometimes contains its
own bitter failure. If the end of the kangaroo’s long life cannot now be far
away, it may have to be, like me, retired. I guess I’ll just have to resurrect
the Ralph Lauren.
Stay tuned.
Phil Cooper,
September 2013
