Since my brave trip to the garage recently, I’ve been going through all those winter clothes one by one. Or two by two if you count the pants. Or a whole lot by a whole lot if you count the scarves & the hats & the jackets & the stockings & the CARIBOU INUIT ASTRONAUT SUITS!
But nope, I’m not bitter. Do I sound bitter? Do I? That’s right! I do NOT. Rather, after a short adjustment period (which was only a couple of months), I’ve mastered the right attitude to rain and happily accepted the long cold soul-destroying winter with open (frozen) arms and kind (frostbitten) heart.
And here is where I imagine my cousin D. in New York smirking and shaking his head going “What? You call 3 measly months of a temperature not even below zero a “long cold winter”? You little weakling!” And I’d say to him, “Well but over there you guys dress for it, properly, appropriately, in caribou Inuit astronaut suits, AND astronaut boots, AND astronaut gloves, AND astronaut helmets! I know, I did it last Christmas when I was there remember? I still have that photo of myself dressed up like a red little Eskimo puffball to prove it.”
Even though I must admit that I was ignorant enough before touching down at JFK, to believe that one could totally do a Carrie Bradshaw and prance around in a dress & strappy 4-inch heels, mid winter in Manhattan, and all one ever needed was a huge faux-fur** coat to cover one’s self with. And I’m telling you right now girlies, THAT WAS A LIE! IT DOES NOT WORK! If you do as much as lift that astronaut helmet a centimetre up from your tired neck, that evil icy air will rush right in and freeze your ears right off and you’ll have nothing to listen with for the rest of your life! Scientific fact.
But over here, in the land of sunshine, not every building is heated, you see. Because our mild weather (or so you think!) isn’t qualified for that. In fact, our house often feels like the inside of a fridge, or Antarctica, whichever’s colder. But because of that “perpetual sunlight” misconception, we girls (aka fashion slaves) like to trick ourselves into thinking we can STILL wear a flimsy silky little frock under the inadequate insulation of a pashmina shawl. Or a micro-skirt over black stockings teemed with a pair of teeny ballet flats. If Carrie can do it in N.Y.C., why can’t we in M.E.L.?
Anyway, back to the wardrobe. It’s rather fun I must say, kinda like having a totally new Autumn/Winter Collection 2008. Especially when I found an old sweater, at the bottom of a suitcase, that hasn’t seen daylight in 3 long years! Yay, I thought, let’s fish it out and call it “vintage“. Smart thinking, me!
Oh but wait, what about the dog hair, you ask? Oops, that! (Geez I never knew directionless rambling could say that much about one’s short-term memory, or attention span, or how deep one is as a person. Not very deep, I guess.) Okay, since you asked, you demanding little muchkins. Well, this morning I pulled out my dark grey long-sleeved tee and found a strand of dog hair stuck in the front. Of course it wouldn’t be of any importance if I had a dog, in which case I’d have had the “privilege” of plucking dog hair out of all my clothes, my furniture, my hair, my tongue, EVERYTHING. But no, I don’t have a pet. This is somebody else’s dog. But not just any ordinary dog. (Or any ordinary somebody else, for that matter.) In fact, An Immensely Heart-Meltingly Adorable Cutie. (I mean the dog.) And that single strand of keratin brought forth so many memories. Good ones. Not so good ones. Fun ones. Sad ones. All memorable. Of a time not so far away, yet so far away.
And it made me think about how there are many people, and creatures, that we’ve met, but may never see again in our life. School friends. Work colleagues. Old neighbours. Random people you met on your travels. You may still keep in touch, email, phone, chat, MyBook, Facespace. With intention to meet up, one day. Some day. But deep down you know that that day may never come. And it’s a fact of life but it’s still rather sad, don’t you think?
Anyway, I’m not gonna get all emotional right here because I’m just not that type of person, you know. The type who gets teary at the sight of her Mum’s knitting needles and Dad’s canvas shoes, which they left behind in a little box in the garage since the last time they came to visit. The type who writes 845 words about (and because of) a stranded dog hair.
**Don’t forget the “faux” ok? You don’t wanna get into trouble with PETA. Although that particular coat in the photo wasn’t “faux” in the least, but real live furry animal skin! Eeek!