Mobile Isolation

Today I'm washing my winter coat. It's a great coat. Not great-looking, necessarily. It's this long, massive down number, the warmest L.L.Bean had in its arsenal. I tend to be cold anyway, so I sacrificed fashion for utility. Not that I noticed the sacrifice right away. At first, I told myself that the look was still beautiful, in an unconventional way. I called it Sexy Eskimo, and I imgined myself strutting down the street accompanied by wah-wah trumpest, a la Bugs Bunny when he put on lipstick. Or like those stunning Russian women in the fur hats.

Then I saw myself.

I caught a glimpse of my own image as I passed by a mirrored building on my way to the subway after work. There was something familiar about it, and I realized: I'm the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come! A frumpy conical monolith, shrouded in mystery and periwinkle, impervious to the scrutiny of stylish but freezing Bostonians around me. In this glorious garment, I'm aware of the cold only on a detached, intellectual level. I'm oblivious to snow, rain, wind, and oncoming traffic.

Mom's not happy about that last bit. The hood comes well in front of my face, cutting off all peripheral vision and a fair bit of sound. I have to turn the upper half of my body a full forty-five degrees to see if cars are coming or to make sure I haven't lost my walking companions. It's my own cozy little world.

I'm way too comfortable to care that I look somewhat less than fabulous. I'll be fabulous in the Spring. Then the danger won't be my walking in front of cars. It will be all the men walking in front of cars because they're staring at me.

Humor me on that.