Drop the jar. Flag up. We surrender. I said “uncle” and the towel has been thrown. It is so cold that in spite of my most profound effort to put forward lessons in layering that could assuage the pungency of, ugh, snow boots, we have no choice but to dress weather appropriately.
Of course, if you’re Charlotte, that still means looking cute-as-shit in a way that doesn’t actually call to mind fecal matter but if you’re Amelia, you’re essentially forfeiting your LTB (license to bone) in the name of looking like an L.L. Bean catalogue male model — but not just male, a little boy with long hair. She is basically torn between two worlds that tug her in the directions of Maine and South London.
I, on the other hand, look like I am a lost child waiting for my parents at the grocery store of life. My point of victory is simply in that if I look hard enough and squint my eyes and tilt my head and fake an accent, I also kind of feel like a personal style blogger based out of the U.K. — leather pants, Nike running sneakers, navy blue turtleneck sweater et al.
Every season I try to get by without purchasing a pair of snow boots and every season the climate punishes me for my Type-B antics. I won’t give up though. In fact, fuck this. All of this. As members of the Internet and further, the society it has cultivated (the greatest thing about this club is that all you need is computer access and operating Internet connection to join!), one of our most impressive coups is that we live in a world devoid of impediments like weather and so forth. So why not seize the fantasy and officially dub this afternoon Wet Hot American Summer?
Also, please tell me you’ve seen that movie. By the power vested in me and Bill Gates (if he’ll sign on, that is) I hereby declare day two of the Polar Vortex’s revival just another summer day. Forget your earmuffs and scarf and those ugly ass boots with traction. Sink into your chair, shelve your chin on your desk and marvel in the near-tangible thought of sunglasses and bathing suits and sweat that runs down your arms and inner thighs (what?) for the duration of this cold front.
Frankly, I might buy a bikini to remind summer that I haven’t given up on it. Maybe newfound proprietorship will catalyze the climate changing process or maybe it won’t. Whatever. Just fuck it. That’s all. Strip down, play music, think about bright colors and pineapple scarves and Edie Parker clutches and cocktail umbrellas and just fuck it.
Now, all in favor of staying in until May, say I.