I went to Cleveland (and boy are my arms tired. OK, that’s just wrong. Never mind). It was the first time in three years I had to / got to wear wintery-fally clothes.
Florida is great, but there are some definite advantages to wearing clothes that cover up your skin, and not just if you’re a heroin addict and you’re trying to hide track marks.
Some of them are:
Hiding the turkey neck that came to visit me shortly after last Christmas and decided to settle in for the long haul.
I don’t think there are any exercises to get rid of a gobbler. It doesn’t care how much weight I gain or lose, how much water I drink, what I eat, or how much I work out. It’s not going anywhere. Fortunately scarves are in. My sister gave me a Pashmina from her recent trip to New York and I got to wear it. Around my neck. Without breaking out in a heat rash. That would never happen in Florida.
Not having to worry about my toenails and other undesirable foot-related things.
Another sign of aging: Ugly feet. I wouldn’t be surprised if in another 1,000 years we just don’t grow a nail on the little toe at all. Because now, midway through the evolutionary process, we’re getting a baby toenail that, at around age 40, becomes a thick, crusty substance that is not toenail. Someone please put a slice of that under a microscope and tell me what the heck it is - if you can clip a piece off. Good luck with that. It’s like a rock.
You can try to file it into the shape of a regular toenail and paint it, but it still just looks wrong.
I waved the white flag of Menopausal in Florida and started getting pedicures about a year-and-a-half ago. What choice did I have? I’m wearing sandals 12 months out of the year. I don’t necessarily want everyone to know that my feet are less stylish and controllable than the rest of me.
In Cleveland this week I wore my old black bootlets. Had to check them first for spiders and cockroaches, but they were good to go. They at least made it through airport security.
Wearing jeans, which are more flattering than any other piece of clothing.
Why is that? Is it the material or the color or what? You can be 250 pounds, smell like BO, and be covered with meth sores, but if you’re wearing jeans, you could score a date. Even Mom Jeans are hotter than Mom Khakis or Mom Sweats. And definitely hotter than Mom Track Suit Pants in ‘80s Colors.
Since I moved to to the tropics, I’ve joined the Capri Pants League, which is typical Florida: This state is all about Laid-back-Anything-goes-Put some Jimmy-Buffett-on-Have-another-drink-It’s 5-o’clock-somewhere-Untuck-that-Hawaiian-shirt-Here-eat-this-coconut-flavored-shellfish-ishness. If a Florida guy ever got elected president (although I’m not condoning that), you could wear a pair of capris to the inaugural ball . And you could go straight to the beach without changing. That’s flexible Florida for you.
But capris don’t hide cankles and they can be murder on your thighs and hips. Jeans are like a time machine. They’ll make you look and feel like you’re young and hip and Hot in Cleveland. So I pretended to be.
Wearing all the clothes you bought in Ireland, where cold is cool.
I didn’t wear my cape because that sucker takes up too much room in a suitcase, but I did pack and wear my nubby sweater that I bought in Dublin 4 years ago. In Ireland, it must be always cold, because people actually wear coats and corduroy and layers and little hats and scarves all the time. It’s not just on TV, it’s for real.
When we were in Ireland, we 1) drank a lot of Guinness 2) bought lamb’s wool and cashmere and other fluffy ingredients in clothing and 3) drank a lot of Guinness. I was happy to bring out my Irish clothes for Cleveland this week. It made me want to drink more James-Joyce-themed-martinis at Nighttown.
I’m back home now and have packed away my bootlets, my Pashmina, my nubby Irish sweater and my jeans. But not too far away. Next trip: Indiana in February. I’m so ready.
Labels: capris, Cleveland, Florida clothes, Hot in Cleveland, Irish cape, Irish clothes, winter clothes