I admire the fortitude of those willing to suffer for fashion. Last January, in the midst of a terrible wet slush-blizzard, I was taking the train to see a movie and in a subway car packed with steaming, salt-stained parka-wearers, there was one defiant soul. She was elegantly kitted out in a pencil skirt, smart wool coat, thin leather gloves and sharp, needly heels. As she valiantly gripped the pole by the doors, precariously balanced, her face wore a look of resigned determination. She was doing what she thought had to be done. It was something.
I am too attached to warmth and too afraid of broken bones and wet feet to make those sacrifices. Even in my own home - the safest place to wear teetery shoes, since it is very small and there are no stairs - I tend to dress like an Arctic refugee. Of course, the temperature in my apartment is often barely comfortable - we usually freeze or roast, although we don't pay for the pleasure. Given the option, I choose to freeze. I've embraced this reality, happily researching the latest and greatest in furry boots, exotic double knits, and reusable pocket warmers.
This ensemble represents the heights of what I like to think of as yeti fashion. Just add a wool blanket or three, extra socks, and a hot water bottle and you've got perfection.
from even*cleveland
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