Mr. Weatherman, you’re not the boss of me

 

Mr. Weatherman, you’re not the boss of me

On our third date, my husband took me…this was January in Boston, mind you…to a romantic dinner in Harvard Square and then a stroll through the snowy cobblestone paths. My mistake—I was wearing a new pair of Gucci heels. Made to impress, sure to distress. Within the first block of handholding loveliness, I navigated myself right on top of a hidden grate covered in a layer of slush. Laughter turned to tears, as I pulled my shoe out, looked at the tag of ripped leather and freaked out. My poor husband-to-be just stared at me in astonishment (somehow a string of dates followed and a subsequent marriage, so I guess he’s not easily phased).

Dealing with winter sole-stice. It’s not the winter winds (ok, my hair doesn’t really like them). Not the frost on the windshield (ok, my nails don’t like that). What bugs me most about the cold season? Having to ask my meteorologist what I should wear. I mean the man dresses nicely, true. But I doubt he knows the first thing about cuffed suede boots or five-inch stilettos. But yet, there I am, hanging on his every word. Does my entire outfit need a weather-induced overhaul because my chosen shoes just won’t accommodate? With rain and snow, fashion goes out the window. I’m forced to trade fashion for function. And, oh look, Cheryl’s wearing her Uggs again.

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