Laundry ListIssue: Section:
My head is protected by my cashmere hat, dependable, patient, forgiving of the state of my hair and the casual way I relegate it to my back pocket the moment the temperature becomes bearable. My chest is layered. For lack of a wholly trustworthy element, I have become a collage of fabric. One to give me confidence, one to shield my heart, one in case it becomes too hot. My legs, from hip bones to ankles, are cloaked in the utilitarian uniform of my environment. Nondescript enough to avoid confrontation yet noticeable to the discerning eye. Thick enough to reflect the daily hail storms on my ego yet still thin enough to feel the chill in the air, speeding my step, keeping me in motion. I have the shoes of a boy, comfortable, warm enough , a final Peter Pan gesture, a smile to separate me from the age that I have become.
Its the drafts that I worry about. My neck, once wrapped in ignorant absoluteness now never seems to completely warm. Even in the heat of the moment and center of action its naked nape shivers. At the spot where my jeans meet my sweaters, the window jam of my backside, is a place that no one "has", unguarded, and when exposed revealing the scars from the stabbings it has endured. I've socks to last a half a week and for the rest - sole survival, blanes chilled, wind to my shins. And finally fingertips. Gloves given to undeserving hands now mock my frozen digits, disabling them, rendering them useless to the the jobs they must perform.
To be so warm and yet so cold.
To insulate or to relocate to a warmer climate? I have a chilling feeling that neither are the answer. Embracing the drafts, however painful, and using their unrepentant reminders to better enjoy the weather, no matter the season may be the best way to dress.