I suffer from some as-yet unidentifiable psychological disorder that establishes a mental roadblock preventing me — for several years going now — from ever getting a proper winter jacket. This is part of some secret, season-change denialist cabal that I was involuntarily signed up for at birth, a group that plots its own perceptions of reality on a sunny Seaside beach in the dead of August, the times when the whik-whik-whik spin of the boardwalk game wheel or the roaring storm surge of the ocean seem like the only boundaries of existence. I consider it general knowledge that winter is mostly a useless season, just some horrible excuse to put on weight via baked goods and to convince yourself of the wonders of bland corners inside your apartment instead of exploring the vast (even if frigid) world about you.
Part of it is the sheer logistics of the thing: winter coats are big and heavy, always hanging off your shoulders like a seasonal albatross, a thick pad practically the size of another person you have to climb into like a one-man submarine, then find storage for at your destination, all in the name of bracing apparently horrifying cold of the 15 feet between your car and the front door. Continue reading