Okay, last week, I broke down and ran the air one afternoon, and this week, autumn seems to have arrived in full force. We haven’t turned the heat on, as we are Midwesterners, and we refuse to acknowledge that this is cold. But I have pulled out all the afghans, of which we have many, because I like nothing better than to crochet large chunky afghans while watching TV when it’s cold out, and have wrapped myself in them*.
But I have not yet broken down and pulled out the winter coat, even though I could have used it on the walk with the dog this morning.
But let me tell you about my winter coat of awesomeness, which I think, in part, is responsible for my embrace of America’s gun culture.
Let me explain. I used to be the kind of girl who wore cute coats. Long black things with shiny buttons and mysterious hoods. Coats as much at home on the city streets of Chicago as walking to work in rural Illinois.
But, honestly, I traded warmth for fashion.
When I moved down here, I was in the Tractor Supply Company, bemoaning the fact that, compared to Farm & Fleet, their toy section sucks, when a blocky stiff blue thing caught my eye.
I’ll admit, between the farm boys of my youth and the rappers on my TV, I might have been preconditioned to at least try that fucker on. But I was thinking, the whole time, how warm can something that looks like a tent be?
Well, toasty. And it’s not even the warmest coat Carhartt makes.
And all of a sudden, I realized that people who get up early in the morning to go out hunting are not crazed maniacs who love to feel chilled to the bone.
They wear warm clothing. Toasty warm clothing. With pockets big enough to actually hold your mittens.
So, I bought that coat and I wear the shit out of it. And at least once a week all through the winter, whenever someone in the office has to run anything anywhere outside the building, it gets borrowed and appreciated for its awesomeness.
Now, if only I can get folks around here to appreciate the glory of my chunky afghans, because I’ve got more than my fair share.
*However, I’m still wearing sandals, because my cute black heels spent the summer as stretchers for the Butcher’s bowling shoes. I’m not very thrilled about this discovery, especially since they hadn’t really recovered from the art accident that landed them covered in wax.