For the first several months of winter, here in the Midwest, where winter lasts until you blink and oops! it’s summer again (and every year I wonder why we don’t move to a more temperate climate as I chisel ice off the windshield of the car while trying not to cry out when the boogies in my nose freeze), I love it. The first snowfall of year is always a day of magic and wonderment for me, it makes me want to bake Christmas cookies and listen to Christmas music and build snowmen and whitewash The Daver. Well, I guess that MOST things make me want to whitewash Daver, not just the first snow of the year.
Today was the first day that we have gotten any snow, and I got that annoyingly gushy feeling in my heart as I suggested that maybe we could do some Christmas shopping or something festive to commemorate the day.
It was as those words slipped out of my gaping pie-hole that it dawned on me, highly unpleasantly: I don’t have a winter coat this year.
Before you start chastising me for not taking proper care of myself, let me assure you that I do, in fact, own at least 25 winter coats. My hallway closet is filled to the brim, bursting at the seems, even, with the products of being a Midwestern native for my whole life. I collect coats in the way that some women collect shoes (I have plenty of those, too, but it my shoes are not the point here, as they happen to fit just fine thankyouverymuch.).
I could remedy this situation post haste, should I choose. The stores are chock full of sassy winter coats this time of year, and no one would fault me for picking up a new one. Problem is, I’m stubborn and don’t want to buy a coat in a bigger size (think circus tents here) to drape my 26 pounds heavier frame (12.5 down, 26 to go!).
It’s depressing enough that I STILL have to wear my maternity clothes (again with the stubborness), and/or shirts with a V-neck to allow my wee one access without having to pull my shirt completely up in public (I swear, I am NEVER even THINKING about wearing anything v-neck EVER AGAIN after I quit nursing. Those shirts will be burned along with my hideous nursing bras when Alex is weaned), thereby rendering those around me to have to throw up in their soup.
But having to pull out the damn maternity coat is just breaking my ickle heart today. It’s a nice enough coat, for sure, although since it’s a trench coat, it gave me a decidely Grimace-like (or Weeble, think Weebles) appearence when I was 9 months pregnant. Now, thankfully, Alex is no longer residing on my person (although he’d probably like that better. There are days when I’m pretty sure if he could find the entryway, he’d happily climb back inside), so the belly is gone which = no Weeble, but the boobs, HOLY SHIT ARE THEY CRAZY HUGE.
Oh well, I suppose it’s not the end of the world. At least the coat’ll fit.