Early Snow - Finally a Voice for the True Victims

I frequently tell people "boots are my thing," and it's true, they are.  I have two dozen pair (plus or minus several more pair, but really plus).  Except, you know what? Tote bags are my thing.  I often say that if I was challenged to do so, for witness purposes of protection relocation or just sheer entertainment, I could pack all my belongings in my tote bags.  But also, jackets are my thing. 

Oh, jackets, fabulous jackets.  Leather (buttery soft! glazed! vintage! fringed! fringed vintage!), corduroy, denim.  Not to mention - a strange obsession with army green jackets.  You can't have too many of those... right? I mean, you need one made of surplus army duffel bags, one that reaches your knees, one with flowers embroidered on the back, one with a fur collar and fireman hardware, one with... wait, I am embarrassing myself.  I don't really have all those jackets.  That would be just nuts. Having so many jackets would mean that the hallway coat closet could house my jackets and only my jackets.  And that would be wrong. Very wrong.

So when the weather turns cold and snowy, as it did so suddenly this weekend, many of those purely hypothetical jackets described above do not get their time in the sun.  They wait patiently all summer to finally be summoned, only to weep in disbelief as my arm reaches into the closet and grabs one of the down jackets (or one of no more than three - well, no more than fourish - down vests).  I can only pray for an Indian summer, during which I will make as many wardrobe changes as Cher, just to give my little friends their fair share of screen time.