If some of your colleagues are men, and you work in a casual environment, you’re familiar with the “Oh, it’s going to be above 60 today? I will wear shorts” phenomenon. It never fails. It was like that in high school, too, and it got to the point where the principal needed to regulate by declaring when it was officially permitted. If there wasn’t a rule, the boys would be wearing shorts as soon as the snow started to melt.
Yesterday it was 80 degrees out, but I still wrapped myself in a cardigan before I left the house and kept it on all day. It’s not like, ohh, I wear long sleeves even in the summer because when my boyfriend was dying of cancer in the hospital I was always wearing sweatshirts because it was so cold in there and now it’s like, “my thing,” wahhhh. I mean, it is true; I did wear warm clothes all the time when Clark was sick. Mostly I wore his clothes, these black thermal undershirts. But no, I’m not STILL wearing sweaters as some sort of homage to this really tough time. However, they do give me a feeling of protection, like a blanket shield. Like I’ve got my guard up, which I do. And I’m not really hot when I choose not to wear shorts and T-shirts. But I do feel safe.
It’s like how I prefer to drink red wine all the time, even in August. At the first glint of summer sunshine, Cella’s uncorking a bottle of pinot grigio. But last night at the bar, even though my face still hadn’t de-reddened from the gym and my body was swathed in a layer of gray cotton, I had two glasses of a Syrah that I’ve had dreams about drinking. The wine brought the same feeling that my sweater gives my body to the pit of my belly.