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. You can always add another sweater. Often Sean comes home to a breathing pile of blankets, mounded in front of the computer with me underneath. I've embraced this reality, happily researching the latest and greatest in furry boots, exotic double knits, and reusable pocket warmers. It's not a look to elicit admiration or envy (although the Montessori preschoolers in my building seem to appreciate it) but it keeps me warm.
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.