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Weather Denier?

Weather Denier?

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It was 35 when I woke up this morning, a temperature that I associate far more with winter than with fall. It’s too early, I want to shout from the rooftops, knowing of course, that the weather gods will ignore me. 

But maybe I should not go gently into that (not) good night. Maybe I should be a weather denier, one who strolls through gales in shirt sleeves and shorts. 

Unfortunately, I’m just the opposite. Right now I’m wearing two layers of wool and one of cotton, and my warmest stretchy pants. One of my sweaters has a hood. I’m feeling a bit bulky … but almost warm. 

(Looking at last week’s beach shots to warm myself up.)

The Purse

The Purse

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Britain’s monarch, Queen Elizabeth, has been in power for almost seven decades. And for most every moment of that time she seems to have carried a purse on her arm.

It’s a funny thing to notice, but women notice other women’s purses. And I wonder about hers: Why should this woman, who can snap her fingers at any moment and have an attendant bring her whatever she desires, need a handbag on her arm wherever she goes—including in her own castle? What does she have in there? Her phone? Her hanky? The nuclear code?

Why does this matter? I’ve thought of it recently because I, too, have been carrying my purse around even while inside the house. I take it upstairs and down. Into the kitchen and into the office. Onto the deck and into the backyard.

There’s a reason for this, of course: it’s because my phone is in my purse. And it helps that I have a purse I can wear, cross-body style. None of that prim, crooked-elbow arrangement.

Still, I don’t like carrying a purse around the house, and I’d like to stop this habit in its tracks. But that will only happen, I’m afraid, when clothing designers start giving women what they’ve always given men: pockets.

(Photo: Wikimedia Commons)

Three Layers

Three Layers

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Three layers on today, plus wool socks and, at least for the moment, a hoodie over my head. It’s been months since I put on this many sweaters. Must be November!

Life without seasons holds no appeal, would be flat and boring. But as daylight shrinks and cold winds blow, I feel a shiver that comes not just from the cold upstairs room where I write these days. It comes, too, from the knowledge of what awaits us.

The leaves that glitter golden now will soon fall, turn brown, need raking. The winds will shudder in from the west, bowing the bamboo and penetrating even the hardy siding.

Even though I try to live in the moment, to take each challenge as it comes, it’s hard not to anticipate this perpetual, seasonal one, the dying of the light.

May in Layers

May in Layers

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I’m hoping this is the last day in May I wear three layers of clothing. I’m typing these words in my winter running tights, merino wool base layer, another wool sweater over that and a sweatshirt on top for good measure. 

I have fuzzy warm socks on my feet. And I think — yes, I’m sure, I can hear it humming — that the heat has just come on. And that means the temperature in the house has dipped down below 65. 

Yes, the planet is warming. And in a few days we may be sweltering. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing I was in shorts and t-shirt right now. 

Warm and Light

Warm and Light

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In my quest to be winter-hardy, I’ve discovered the many virtues of merino wool. I have a couple of merino wool blend “base layers,” which in the old days I would have called undershirts, and I’m wearing them now underneath everything: turtlenecks and cardigans and pullovers and sweatshirts. 

The fact that we keep our house temperature in the mid-60s means that I need at least three layers even when inside. When I go for a walk I throw a jacket over the ensemble, cover my ears and hands, and I’m good to go.

The key, I’ve realized, is warmth without weight. It sounds like an advertisement for pricey athleisure wear — in fact, I’m pretty sure it is — but it actually works. I feel warm with three layers on, providing one of them is my base layer.  And the “weightlessness” means I’m not stuffed like a sausage into my clothes. Warm and still able to bend my arms — what more could I want?

Seasonal Migration

Seasonal Migration

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It’s time for the annual migration. I’m not talking about birds flying south for the winter but of the seasonal switch from shorts and t-shirts to tights and sweaters. 

One thing struck me yesterday as I laundered and folded and ran up and down the stairs carrying warm clothes up and cool clothes down. It was that many of these clothes would be better off going not up or down but out of the house entirely.

How many sweaters and shirts and scarves do I hang onto because I love the person who gave them to me? The answer is … many! 

Yesterday I told myself once again that I need to stop hanging onto these duds. It’s one thing to have papers and books and knick-knacks you cannot bear to part with … but to have clothes that are this way, too, is far more inconvenient. What’s required is a certain ruthlessness. I’m awaiting its arrival. 

That Other Life

That Other Life

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In my closet are two pairs of black boots, one knee-high and the other ankle-height. Above them hang trousers, skirts, dresses and sweaters — seldom worn now.

On my dressing table four long pendant necklaces gather dust. A clutch of earrings do the same. A watch sits by them, still ticking but looking forlorn. And then there’s the perfume bottle, which has scarcely been touched these past few weeks.

These are the accoutrements of my public persona, the things I don’t bother with when I’m at home. Now it’s yoga pants and sweatshirts, hair pulled back in clips.

It’s comfortable, it’s fun (for a while). But that other life had value, too. And now it seems … far away.

Ugly Sweaters?

Ugly Sweaters?

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For our office party today we’ve been told to wear our Christmas sweaters, “the tackier the better.”  I’m wearing mine, but I doubt it will win the prize — and I hope it doesn’t.

My Christmas sweater was a gift, and it was given with love, so I don’t want it to be skewered. But more to the point, I’m against ugly sweater contests in general because — strange as it sounds — I feel sorry for the sweaters.

I’ve been trying to figure out why that is. Could it be the way I sentimentalize clothing, a habit that has filled my closet with items that would be better off at Goodwill? Or could it be deeper than that?

Christmas sweaters, like Jello salad and green bean casserole, speak of an earlier, less ironic era. Could it be that in satirizing sweaters with appliqués and rick-rack we’re announcing that we’re beyond such froufrou — even though we’re following the fashion of our era just as rigidly. (Will we someday have ripped jean contests — the more ripped the better?)

Seems to me that with all there is to celebrate at the holidays, choosing to belittle something (even something that’s asking for it) is a poor use of our time.  I know, I know. Lighten up — it’s just a sweater. But maybe … it’s more.


(This is not my sweater. It’s from an invitation to an ugly sweater contest.)

Coatless

Coatless

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The first time each season always feels strange, like jumping off a high dive or setting off in a tube on a fast-moving river. There is a similar lack of control. The coat will not be there if the weather takes a nasty turn. There is no turning back.

Today I took a jacket from the house but left it in the car. It was that balmy this morning, with the promise of more warmth to come. The wrap would have been superfluous. It would have been wadded up in my tote bag before I even reached the office.

So off I went, with only a sweater between me and the elements. No jacket, no coat. It wasn’t until I reached Metro that I realized I’d also left my umbrella. So now I’m coatless — and umbrella-less, too. It must be spring.

Shades of Gray

Shades of Gray

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With apologies to those expecting a more salacious post … this one’s about my wardrobe. It’s about the gray skirts and the gray pants, the gray dress and the gray sweater.  It’s about the sweatshirts, all three of them, all gray.

And then there are there are the gray turtlenecks; I have a few of those, too, one dark, one light, one striped and one emblazoned with “U.K.” Dad sent the latter one to Claire in hopes she would go to the University of Kentucky for college. She went to George Mason instead — and I kept the turtleneck.

I like the color gray; it’s soft and neutral,  a worthy alternative to black. But I’m starting to feel … a little grayed out.  Pinks and purples and fuchsias are looking good these days.

Maybe it’s a midwinter thing, or a midlife thing. … But I could use some color!