The Best Dressed Man of the Capital Region (if that’s still even my title) is most likely to be found in something like this comfy get-up until the return of Spring. Yes, I wear sweat-pants and wife-beaters when no one’s around, and the weather is getting me down. That lack of style is in full-force for this season. It struck me as I was walking outside the Plaza yesterday, heading up the street to El Mariachi: the gray doldrums of winter are here. Along the way, that nasty mix of salt and dirt and snow mirrored the cloudy sky. From now until April, this is what we in upstate New York will have the displeasure of seeing. It seems like such a long soul-sucking stretch to then, and every year – usually about February or so – I wonder how we will make it. This year that dispiriting moment seems to have arrived even sooner.
I paused on the sidewalk and let the wind rush around me. The thought of a margarita did not hasten my step. The notion of a cozy dinner with my husband did not quicken my pace. The dullness of Albany was having its way, eroding the shiny and sparkly veneer I try to keep so polished. Even my red messenger bag, chosen to highlight the crimson accents of the Burberry plaid of my coat, did not manage to elicit the slightest of smiles. When Burberry fails to thrill, you know the winter, or the location, has you whipped.
The wind pushed me on, toward the fuzzy warmth of a salt-rimmed tequila pool, into which I dove to divert myself, and there I closed out a mundane Monday.
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