It’s cold. Not here, at this moment– at this moment, here, I’m buried under layers of blankets and the air vents nearby are expelling salvation in the form of hot air– but I’m staring out the huge picture windows in front of me and I can see that it’s raining, and I know it’s going to be cold outside again today. As it has been for the past couple of days.
Typical thin-blooded hothouse flower of a girl, I shiver violently if even a small patch of skin is exposed to this winter air, regardless of how many layers I’m wearing. It doesn’t help matters that, unless I’m going running or dressing up, I keep leaving the house in flip-flops– understand, my roots come from Southern California, Honolulu and the desert. Flip flops are all I *know*.
It also doesn’t help matters that I’ve never really had a proper winter coat. Like, a nice wool coat. I have two jackets for snowboarding, a floor-length evening coat that weighs 200 pounds, a trenchcoat that weighs almost the same but is a size or two too big, and a million thin cotton Danskin jackets. But nothing properly winter-coat-ish. Every year, I keep thinking I’ll get around to buying one, but it usually only gets cold right as everyone starts wanting to do their holiday shopping, which means I avoid any retail area like the plague until the chaos has died down. Unfortunately, this means waiting until late February, and by then, it’s less cold and I begin to forget how I should really invest in a good coat. Plus, I just dislike shopping in general.
But all the women out here have cute coats, and it’s a daily– hourly, really– reminder of the many advantages of having a cute, warm wool coat (namely: cute! and warm!). I’ve just been wearing his jackets instead. They don’t fit by any standard– too big in the shoulders and the arms, too long, etc.– and the excess sleeves always get in the way of everything. You could maybe fit two (well, one-and-a-half) of me in them, which equates to multitudes of open passageways for the cold air to sneak in and rasp my skin with its dry chill. So really, wearing his jacket renders me neither stylish nor warm. All the more incentive to stop into a store and get a coat, a real coat, a coat that fits. Right?
Except. Except I know that even if I had that kind of a coat, even if I had a hundred of them– I would probably still just keep wearing his jacket instead (while I’m up here, anyway). It’s not ideal, it’s not superiorly protective against the cold, it’s not exactly flattering on my frame; but it’s his. Soft, sentimental and foolish, but I love wearing it because it’s his, because it belongs to him and because I have the singular privilege of wearing it. I might still be cold, but I’m also lucky– truly, luckier than most people ever get to be in their lives. So while I’m not bundled up in the latest fashion, I am wrapped up in his love, in our love, really, and that alone floods me with warmth and comfort and protects me from things far worse than winter weather.