Money Can Buy Love

News flash: it's freezing cold in NY. I'm not talking about the normal breezy, tear-inducing weather that causes me to curse under my breath as I run down the streets (wind tunnels?) that make up New York city. It's so cold out here that I don't even want to go outside. Last night I was supposed to go to a concert, but just the thought of walking the 10 minutes from the subway to the venue practically gave me hypothermia and I had to take an hour and a half bath to get the feeling back in my toes. I thought to myself, "Freeze, or play with bubbles?" Hey, we all have our priorities.

Some smart New Yorkers anticipate weather like this and have all the appropriate gear - down puffy coats that go from your shoulders down to your ankles, boots lined with fur, gloves that go from fingertip to armpit, and cashmere hats with sealskin lining (I don't know, it seems plausible). They are the fearless, the few that will sacrifice no social encounter because of a silly thing such as mind numbing cold.

Then there are stupid, not-even-real New Yorkers such as myself who freeze their asses off every time they step out the door. I use the layer method - who needs boots when you can wear seven pairs of socks? What's the point of a long coat when you can just put on some shorts, silk underwear, leggings, and cover it all with your fat pants? Sure, you can see through my skimpy hat, but keeping my head warm is what my unkempt, just-bushwacked-through-a-forest 'do is for, is it not? Normally this freeze-and-endure-it method that has proved to be uncomfortable but tolerable... until now.

Today when I woke up it was 9 degrees out (translation: with the wind chill it feels like -5), and now it is a balmy 11. Nothing makes you want to shop for warm clothing like an arctic chill, and so to celebrate this momentous occasion (er, the one where I literally thought my nose fell off of my face from frostbite, that is) I bought myself some boots and a couple more pairs of long underwear.

This is where the money buying love comes in, because I am literally in love with the boots that I bought. I have no idea if they are going to fit at all, but they are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes upon and I am going to try my darndest to make it work. Do I feel a little bad that the leather is made out of calves skin? Yes. Do I worry that I don't ever wear heels and that I probably have nothing to wear with them? A little. Did my bank account cry out in protest when a large chunk of change was ripped out of it to pay for these boots? Most definitely. But ultimately none of these things matter, because even if I only wear them around the house, wincing from the pain of wearing shoes a size too small while coming to the shocking revelation that I am indeed void of anything resembling morals, it will be worth it because, well... my feet will look hot!

Carrie Bradshaw would be so proud. This thought I find more disturbing than anything else.