Over the past few days, the wind has been of the cutting to the bone variety. Yet I have worn both a skirt and a dress on separate occasions this week. Yesterday it was a blue, plaid woolen mini with faux sailor buttons. On my way out as the winter sun shone, the tights covering my legs performed their job admirably. On my way home hours after the sun had set, the wind felt like a million pins bombarding my legs until they succumbed to numbness.
Though uncomfortable, I made a point not to complain. Yes it's cold, but I live in Boston, and it's going to be cold until April. I better make do.
When not wearing various types of skinny pants with knee high boots or layering argyle knee socks under my jeans in order to extend the life of my ballet flats, I've been running around in tights of various hues. And not just grays and blacks and other colors in that family. My legs have begun to resemble a set of crayons stripped of their wrapping. Yesterday's pair were a brilliant blue. They popped against the vibrant red of my peacoat. The mauve and the mustard have been waiting for this moment. For navy dresses and striped tops worn with corduroy skirts. The silver sparkle tights sit anticipating their turn.
It seems as if my color notions are all mixed up. As the cold causes others to lumber into the dark, I can't help but do the opposite. I spent an hour this morning looking for a specific cobalt blue top. Only it could provide the perfect flush of color that would complement my thickly knit, winter white cardigan. Its inability to be found set the day off to the wrong start.
Others are surprised by the brightness. I am surprised by my reliance on it.
I'm pulled in one direction and then another.
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