While I witnessed flurries, drizzle, rain, massive snow flakes and various changes betwen all four in the span of minutes today, there’s no doubt that Spring is marching forward and before it gets too hot, I’d better publish this post. (It being one of those unpublished posts sitting around waiting to be “polished”.)
I can’t say what it was that triggered the impulse to stride many blocks from my new dentist with the mission of a new winter coat in mind some weeks ago. This thought led me on a quest through Syms (never again unless you’re a man looking for an inexpensive suit); the Burlington Coat factory/TJ Maxx/discount shopping nexus on Sixth Avenue; to where I should have headed in the first place, that true mecca of cut-rate consumerism: Century 21.
It was here, in the perpetual sale mayhem that pervades this emporium, that I found what I was looking for: a warm, fuzzy coat with a little panache.
The cold weather over the ensuing weeks gave me ample opportunity to wear the new acquisition, and plenty of time to enjoy the coat compliments that came my way. But, I reasoned, no one was really fooled into thinking that a group of poor defenceless lambs had been sacrificed to produce my outerwear. The static electricity field around me alone should have been a sufficient clue to the shocking truth.
So imagine both my surprise and glee to be acosted by a group of PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) activists coming out of the subway en route to see Cyrano de Begerac at the Metropolitan Opera. (Placido Domingo was incredible in the lead, but more about that.. sometime later.)
This pod of protesters, who, one imagines, is well trained to a) tell fur from fake and b) should at least support the idea of wearing outerwear that requires only the raping of the land for the polyethylene byproducts to produce it, as opposed to the wholesale slaughter of animals.
“No more fur!” they yelled at me. To which I succintly replied, “It isn’t.” But they were having none of that, trying to ply me with literature, handouts and stickers. As the crowd I was in swept up the stairs out of the subway they managed to hand a card to my companion urging him “you’ve gotta speak to her.”
Ahh… little did they know there can be no higher compliment to a fake fur wannabee coat than to be mistaken for the real thing. Of course, I don’t think that any of the Met ladies bought it for a minute, but then again, it’s fortunate that my priorities lie in being somewhat fashionbly warm, and not playing a fashionista wannabee. No “fret-a-porter” for me, thanks.
(P.S. I highly recommend The Budget Fashionista as an informative guide to shopping in New York.)