Well, it’s happening.
We all knew it would, of course—but nothing could have prepared me for November snow flurries. When I was a little girl, every time the air grew frosty outside my third grade teacher would confidently declare that it was “snot freezing weather”.
Y’all. IT IS SNOT FREEZING WEATHER.
Once upon a time when I was just crazy in love enough to delude myself into believing that snowy New York sounded JUST FREAKING MAGICAL, [a year ago], I asked for a new coat for Christmas. I understood that the flimsy little North Carolina jacket I’d been skating through fifty degree weather in wouldn’t cut in in the arctic north.
My Mama and I drove to the mall where I picked out a feisty little pink number, because if pink is good enough for Elle Woods it’s good enough for me. Also, nothing says WHAT’S UP Y’ALL like a pink pea coat wandering into a sea of black puffy-coated, disgruntled New Yorkers.
[Black is the new black around these parts.]
Two days after that fateful Christmas, Kellan and hopped an Albany-bound flight to go apartment hunting. I deboarded the plane, happily belted my brand new pea coat and waltzed out of the sliding airport doors…
…and died a thousand deaths. It took approximately three tenths of a second for the bloom to rub off of New York and panic to set in—cold like this was INHUMANE. Meanwhile Kellan took one nervous look at me, scooped me up into his arms and carried me over a snowbank towards the waiting car.
Great in theory, except the aforementioned car was BURIED UNDER A MOUNTAIN OF SNOW. If not for one defiant little rear view mirror bravely peeking out on the left hand side, we might still be wandering around that parking lot!
I got the vapors and channeled Tiny Tim as I stood shivering violently in the frigid cold while Kellan dug the car out. The car which, I kid you not, died in the middle of the highway ten minutes later.
Welcome to New York!
It was clear that my darling pink coat wasn’t going to cut it. I would be forced to join the androgynous, marshmallow ranks of puffy coated New Yorkers everywhere—a dismal inevitability that my color-loving personality abhorred. [Kellan once informed me he needed sunglasses to look into my closet. This, from the man that carefully rotates four pairs of socks.]
After packing up my life and moving to Albany, I began asking around. The ugly coats you people wear—where do you buy them? [And yes, I’m making SCORES of friends up here. Why do you ask?] Everyone told me to head to the mall, and so on Saturday Kellan girded his loins and bravely accompanied me.
I think God knew that this one needed to be as swift and painless as possible, because it didn’t take long to find a knee-length, down, puffy number for 35% off. The impulsive addition of a sassy pair of striped socks served as the proverbial sugar that made the medicine go down, and ten minutes later I was the indignant owner of a marshmallow coat. Kellan gushed about how I “looked like a French model”. I shot him a look that could have melted all of the snow in New England, and in a voice that sounded eerily like Simba’s criminal Uncle Scar, calmly told him to stop. trying.
Mama told me there’d be days like this.
New York, I’ve caved and bought your uniform. But I’ll have you know that every time you see me waddling around in my black coat, I’M WEARING COLOR UNDERNEATH.