Monday, February 16, 2009

F-f-f-fashion Week

Isn't she chilly in that?

Thursday. Fashion Week begins. Hundreds of designers descend on Manhattan. I’m nowhere near Bryant Park, but in a nod to élan, I wear a chic little coat to work, one of those shapely down styles that taper at the waist, along with narrow toed boots and leather gloves. I notice that. It’s. Really. Cold.

Friday. The temperature drops below freezing. Pointy toed footwear doesn’t accommodate socks very well. At lunch, I switch to a pair of clunky but spacious rubber boots, a temporary measure, I’m sure.

Saturday. I dump the cute coat and dig out a marshmallow circa 1994. Monochrome is back, which is consoling since the coat and everything else I’m wearing is brown. It’s also enormous, a down comforter with sleeves. Not a lean silhouette, but I wear it anyway. My arm is too thick to get through the strap of my Prada bag. I ditch the bag.

Sunday. The weekend shows emphasize layering. On my way to the coffee shop, I try draping the hood of my coat loosely over my head like some Russian princess. But it captures wind like a sail. I cinch the hood shut until fur trim encloses my face like tentacles on a star-nosed mole ─ a good look only if you’re Shackleton returning to Elephant Island with a rescue party. I sense I’m losing some kind of battle here.

Monday. At least four designers have featured elbow-length gloves. I am reduced to mittens, which encase all fingers in one fat flipper with a stiffly opposable thumb. They are red. I harbor not even a faint hope that they will read as ironic.

Tuesday. I’ve got crab claws for hands and tree stumps for feet. My arms hang away from my sides, and I tilt my head back just to see where I’m walking. I burrow through four waistbands to scratch an itch.

Wednesday. My clothes weigh more than Kate Moss.

Thursday. I don’t have style anymore. I don’t even have gender. I may not be human. I am Sasquatch. Peer deep into my fuzzy hood and you will find, not the pert nose and rosy lips of a fashionista but darting eyes and pointed teeth and the fetid breath of a carnivore.

Friday. Who cares? I ask myself bitterly. Not me. Not anymore. Because, finally, I’m warm.


  1. Ha! Fab post, but poor you! Come to New Orleans, where it is warm. Maybe you and Mr Bromeliad could do some Mile Running and end up where it's 60 degrees, on a chilly day.

  2. We actually will be doing a mile run to Hawaii in two weeks. :)

  3. Aaahhh, all will be well then. You'll forget all about the bone cracking cold of NYC. Lucky you!