And we’re back.
After a grueling, near Arctic week-and-end and the subsequent, seedless, unwarranted assurance from the dream shatterers that are weather forecasters that this cold front is setting up steady shop, it is time to suggest — nay demand — that you forfeit your sweatpants, boots and your multiple, fecklessly 5-syllabled ‘But It’s Coo-oooll-dddd’ attitude to show the atmospheric conditions what you’re really made of: a selection of theatrical layers.
I’ll help get you started — one does not expect a hibernating automobile to operate on demand — with a Lesson in Layering that will build itself by breaking down the sheets of cloth ye shall use to cloak your glacial limbs.
You’ll start with a thin turtleneck – ribbing optional — that will allow for multiple over-layers. Because I’ve been on a neckerchief kick, this is an especially timely layer as it will create the illusion-plus-body that I am in fact still working to become Katharine Hepburn. Which I am. Add a pair of leather or not (synthethic fiber, shmynthetic shmiber) pants that will forbid your legs from catching wind (get it?) of the true clime but that will also make half-tucking easy (drop crotch: 1, Fupa: 2).
Foundation blocks on, the building starts.
Add a plaid shirt. It can be flannel if you’d like but mine is cotton. I’d suggest a white base because you don’t know this yet but you’re about to cloak said flannel with a solid grey sweater. Not before adding a pair of ankle socks, though. So, add a black pair of ankle socks. (We’re now at Step 4.)
While you may have believed the socks to be a sensible layer, they are actually that which will help your starkest white (or brightest! Favorite? Whatever!) pumps create an ocularly blaring contrast. And isn’t it great that the slightest sliver of your leg still shows?
Once you’ve done that, you can start playing the festoon game. In lieu of a neck scarf, I suggest a choker to wear over the turtleneck portion of your outfit and because you are not a gladiator but really want to be one, you should think about wearing gold cuffs (TomTom, Alexis Bittar) on both yours wrists.
Tell people that Russell Crowe is your dad.
Once you’ve done that, it’s time to add a coat because even though I don’t like pouring superfluous dressing over my salad, much worse than an accidental cruciferous vegetable-flavored soup is the hypothetical sequence where I get sick and can’t breathe and sleeping becomes a chore, etc, etc. (That was a metaphor, text me if you’re confused.)
I like to think we are a camp of good compromisers, though, so only button that top button of your coat, pop your collar like you’re a kid from Maine who just moved to the Big Apple and let humanity marvel in the demiurgic masterstroke that is your guise.