I've been having flashbacks: it's winter but for some reason I'm wearing a paper thin coat. A little single-layer-of-fabric deal that doesn't even have buttons; that doesn't even have a belt. It's a coat designed to be held closed (to be clear, dramatically closed. With one hand while jumping across puddles. Or traipsing through the streets). It's a smock, if I'm honest. A summer smock so diaphanous and lightweight that it would probably melt if I ever wore it out in the rain.
Yet, I wore such a coat through many winters. Through all of the winters. I froze. And I accepted it. Discomfort was just part of Winter; just part of fashion. So, my shoes, which by February were destroyed by the salt, were, in the interim, continuously wet and soggy. And my gloves, which were really these mesh, fingerless decorations that had come free with a bag of marshmallows, were quickly tucked away into one's tiniest coin purse when not in use (or, as it happens, eaten for one's impromptu breakfast as gloves like these were typically fabricated from things like rice candy).
Hats? Hats were the known destroyers of hair-dos. Layers? There wasn't room for any layers beyond those of one's already lightweight clothing beneath one's already lightweight coat. Boots? Boots would be just more things to lug around. And I already had a handful of Skittles in one hand and a micro-purse in the other–which kept my single Altoid and as many as eight dollars organized quite nicely. No, I was cold. Very, very cold. But then, *one day, as is the case with so many things, all of that changed. And I started dressing for the weather. And it was wonderful. And warm.