Deep in the looming catastrophe that is my closet sits a very nice black wool coat. It does not rest on a hangar. It is folded up on the shelf, a slew of unfolded sweaters piled on top of it. It's already February, the thick of winter, and I haven't used it. I didn't use it last year, nor the year before, or the year before that. I can't, really, because I am not allowed to.
The last few years I lived in Manhattan, I experienced the tremendous arc of weather that's almost unlike anywhere else in this country. Summers of what felt like scalding hundred-degree temperatures thanks to the sun bouncing off all of the materials that make up that vertical city. Mild winters packed with wind tunnels and slush puddles splashed around by cab drivers with zero fucks to give. You learn how to dress for the elements rather quickly there.
During the summers in the city, most of your retail stores and bodegas keep their entrances open for the public. Which is strange, because you'd think running air conditioning would mean keeping the doors shut, but whatever. These shops would blast their AC, the cold air billowing out onto the sidewalk. Those brief moments of joy blasting at your side walking by these shops was always refreshing. Sometimes, you might even decide to enter these stores, to either shop, browse around, or just hang out for a few minutes because it's so damn hot outside. In those few short moments however, you find yourself getting goosebumps and practically shivering half to death - all because they're blasting the air conditioning to absolutely obscene levels. Icicles are forming on the ceilings. Employees know better - they're wearing sweaters. In July. Soon your joy at the cool air turns into annoyance, and now you're struggling to leave past the humid hordes piling into the place, where they too will succumb to the frosty conditioned air.
Winter isn't much different in the Big Apple. While the cold and snow were much more mild than where I grew up outside Albany, the winter months still sucked the life out of you. Bundle up, they said. Wind chill factor, they said. Cold blasts, they said. Sure, fine. So I bundled up in things like my wool coat. I'm walking around. It's cold, but I'm toasty. Say, there's a fun little sandwich shop across the street, maybe I'll go and try it. I kick the snow off my boots before venturing inside. BAM, searing heat pressing on my face and making me all sorts of uncomfortable. And it hits you right in the doorway - not even fully inside yet! While I'm ordering my delicious food I'm unbuttoning my coat and wishing the oppression would just stop. It can't stop, because it won't stop. It's blasting out full throttle from all the vents. Might as well use the heat to warm my sandwich instead of that grill.
At some point, I guess we just decided that our indoors here need to be either one absolute extreme or the other for both winter and summer, with very little middle ground. In particular, winter has all but rendered my wool coat practically useless. Why wear it if I'm always having to remove it almost immediately upon entering anywhere - especially when it's not even that cold outside as it is? And it's bad enough with the bar scene. Maybe two hooks under the bar for coats per what, eight people? No thanks. I'll stick to my sweaters.
As per this wool coat stuffed away, I should probably donate it. However, in my head I imagine some frozen tundra will somehow occur that would even scare Siberia residents. It has become a just-for-emergency coat. Emergencies like, say, a fire - with a heat index that might equal the thermostat at Kohl's earlier this afternoon. Might.
The last few years I lived in Manhattan, I experienced the tremendous arc of weather that's almost unlike anywhere else in this country. Summers of what felt like scalding hundred-degree temperatures thanks to the sun bouncing off all of the materials that make up that vertical city. Mild winters packed with wind tunnels and slush puddles splashed around by cab drivers with zero fucks to give. You learn how to dress for the elements rather quickly there.
During the summers in the city, most of your retail stores and bodegas keep their entrances open for the public. Which is strange, because you'd think running air conditioning would mean keeping the doors shut, but whatever. These shops would blast their AC, the cold air billowing out onto the sidewalk. Those brief moments of joy blasting at your side walking by these shops was always refreshing. Sometimes, you might even decide to enter these stores, to either shop, browse around, or just hang out for a few minutes because it's so damn hot outside. In those few short moments however, you find yourself getting goosebumps and practically shivering half to death - all because they're blasting the air conditioning to absolutely obscene levels. Icicles are forming on the ceilings. Employees know better - they're wearing sweaters. In July. Soon your joy at the cool air turns into annoyance, and now you're struggling to leave past the humid hordes piling into the place, where they too will succumb to the frosty conditioned air.
Winter isn't much different in the Big Apple. While the cold and snow were much more mild than where I grew up outside Albany, the winter months still sucked the life out of you. Bundle up, they said. Wind chill factor, they said. Cold blasts, they said. Sure, fine. So I bundled up in things like my wool coat. I'm walking around. It's cold, but I'm toasty. Say, there's a fun little sandwich shop across the street, maybe I'll go and try it. I kick the snow off my boots before venturing inside. BAM, searing heat pressing on my face and making me all sorts of uncomfortable. And it hits you right in the doorway - not even fully inside yet! While I'm ordering my delicious food I'm unbuttoning my coat and wishing the oppression would just stop. It can't stop, because it won't stop. It's blasting out full throttle from all the vents. Might as well use the heat to warm my sandwich instead of that grill.
At some point, I guess we just decided that our indoors here need to be either one absolute extreme or the other for both winter and summer, with very little middle ground. In particular, winter has all but rendered my wool coat practically useless. Why wear it if I'm always having to remove it almost immediately upon entering anywhere - especially when it's not even that cold outside as it is? And it's bad enough with the bar scene. Maybe two hooks under the bar for coats per what, eight people? No thanks. I'll stick to my sweaters.
As per this wool coat stuffed away, I should probably donate it. However, in my head I imagine some frozen tundra will somehow occur that would even scare Siberia residents. It has become a just-for-emergency coat. Emergencies like, say, a fire - with a heat index that might equal the thermostat at Kohl's earlier this afternoon. Might.