I have known for a long time that my mood depends on the weather. What I have just recently come to know is that this is the case because the weather controls what I will wear.
See, when it rains, I must forgo suede — that and the ceramic promise of decent hair. When it snows, I’m forced to abandon my clothes all together in the name of feeling like a plastic duck, plowing through the depths of chilled, indigenous-to-bathtub waters, wearing not just rubber but rubber that is warm.
And when it’s cold — when it’s cold, who cares what I’m wearing behind my coat? No matter how much I may have liked the cloak when I initially obtained it, the inevitability that it will stay on through the duration of the season starts to sting at month three, leaving me at the intersection of disgusted and in utter hate.
So, that’s that.
When it’s warm, though, when the sun comes out and the ice coffee flows like beer at a frat party or green juice at a Millennial get-together, I’m given the freedom of choice. No longer delimitated by circumstantial climatic woes, I can choose suede or not. Skirt or pants. Long jacket or short jacket or no jacket at all.
In the case of today, the first of its kind since the balmy days of yonder, I chose a long sleeve crop top faced with a terrible case of identity crisis in that it is from Zara but so clearly once was Calvin Klein. The jeans, so high waist the zipper takes a full minute to reach the button closure, are Blk Dnm while the trench coat, lightweight and linen and manipulated heavily by tiers of drawstring is Acne. The boots are Saint Laurent and make me feel vaguely western but only in the same way that bras make me vaguely feminine.
I’m not cold at all and that makes me want to jump, jump, so, I’m going to do that.