When the night sky becomes shot through with red and gold lights, and the air I breathe bears the scent of cinnamon and clove nearly as strongly as that of stale cigarettes, it can only mean one thing.
Xmastime. And that can only mean one thing...
Regretting the coat purchase I made six weeks ago as my broke ass shivers on a windy street corner.
Let me also add a quick story about a trip Abe and I made to the Outlet Mall near his parents' house in Garrison NY last summer. It is relevant, I swear. Wait for it...
As per usual, Abe and I were bickering bitterly throughout the entire adventure, as is generally the case with us when either career or personal/textile/garment-related aesthetics come into discussion.
I believe we were shopping for pants. His, specifically.
At one point, we went into the Barney's Outlet store.
He began thumbing listlessly through a rack of brown, khaki, fatigue, sand, and tan cargo corduroys, occaisionally throwing me one of those adorable, yet cerebellum-melting glances that, on one hand say "sweetie, I need a hand--please come over here and lend me your expert opinion", while also saying, with equal emphasis "you controlling bitch, if you even try to come over here spraying your overblown, castrating judgements like usual, I will make the rest of this shopping expedition a living hell".
While contemplating this age-old conundrum of going or staying, my eyes fell upon a rack supporting two perpendicularly hung rows of pure magic.
The Michael Kors coat. Winter 04/05. Wool, black or red, warm. Perfectly formed with a high neck, very long arms, over-knee fall length, and one sturdy, yet elegant zipper breaking the unmarred perfection of the outer shell (the pockets were inseam, coyly hidden). There it was...in my size.
$200.
$200.
$200.
I left it. My financial situation, as usual, looked about as good as the prospects for gay marraige in Texas. Anyway. The day was for Abie. Abie's pants. Sure, he probably wouldn't ever speak to me again, but at least his sweet cheeks would end up perfectly situated in reasonably-priced denim.
Since that day, I have regretted leaving the coat. A miserable, aching, and certainly cold regret.
Two months after I came back to Berlin, I bought a coat at H & M. Vaguely 1950's in shape and Oscar the Grouch colored, it turns out to be the perfect coat for a dry, brisk, late autumn day.
Not the wet, dark, biting Taiga that is a Berlin winter.
I am grateful for the fact that, since buying the coat, I have lost a few pounds, allowing for extensive layering. Still, as I feel the unrelenting mini-turds of wet snow sink through coat, sweater, sweater, turtleneck, shirt, tank-top, finally hitting unappreciative skin, my mind returns to that which I was too dumb, cheap and proud to buy.
Now I know that Christmas ghosts aren't necessarily menacing, faceless appartitions or sprightly fairies...they can be fabulously cut woolen shells filled with down and lines with nylon. They can haunt you while you shop for groceries and toiletries you could've done without...and appear on Berlin's slender glamor girls, who probably payed EU 1000 for the honor.
On long dark nights, the Michael Kors coat is there. At least one generally wakes up from a nightmare come sunrise. Not me. By tomorrow morning (at which time hopefully the green H & M coat will have dried out sufficiently...reclaiming its charming "crusty asshole of a dog carcass lying on Arizona asphalt for a week" odor once again), there will be no release from its perfect, clean, classic red or black wool grip.
Only 5 more shopping days.
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