I’m already layered like I’m sneaking out of a hotel…tights, long johns, 5 ply turtleneck sweaters. If I’m not careful I might tip right over as I’m walking down the street.
I even broke out my agnes b. faux fur hat that usually doesn’t appear before February.
A woman I know sidled up to say, “Since when do you wear fur?”
“Faux fur…since it dropped 30 degrees in a day and a half.”
“How do you know it’s fake…haven’t you been reading the papers? There’s an outbreak of false faux fur that’s real. Go ask PETA.”
“That won’t be necessary…I have firm faith in agnes b. who would never do a thing like that.” Why I had this faith, I really can’t say. Could be because I love my hat so much.
She then waddled off leaving me to ponder what might be on my head.
Years ago, my ex gave me a rabbit hat that felt like bunnies were running across my scull. My faux fur doesn’t do that.
End of story.
I then go to the library whose heating system rivals Miami Beach. Men were in their shirt sleeves while women should have kept theirs on. I hate droopy arms, they make me want to hit the floor and do regulation push-ups till they slip back into their coats.
My arms, though stick-like, don’t sway when I go from the op-eds to obituaries, the two sections of the New York Times I religiously read.
Of course, several of my layers had to come off so I wouldn’t faint. That took 20 minutes.
Winter is just such a pain in the ass and isn’t she here a bit early? I know it’s November and December is pulling up the rear, but shouldn’t there be an upside to Global Warming, like springy temperatures every other day? That’s fair. I could live with that arrangement knowing if I was freezing on Friday, come Sunday I’d be sporting tights and a tight T, socks in my purse only for emergencies.
Instead, I’m swaddled in sweatpants with so much padding I may, for once in my life, have an actual ass.
Excuse me while I get a blanket.