Last night at around midnight...or 1 am... under the dim light of a street lamp I contemplated.
I watched gads of young women in their early 20s run around with no coats and skimpy outfits better suited for summer and running across a slippery icy street with 3 inch heels. Mind you...it was 15 degrees Farenheit last night. If you think I say this with a touch of condescension you would be right. I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs
"What are you thinking??"
No coats, no traction and no sense.
I'm beginning to feel sensible and practical in an impractical world. I wore a warm sweater underneath my wool coat, scrarf and mittens. Afterall I am suddenly older and wiser, right? I realize that I can go out and a bout and still have the sense that the big guy gave me to stay warm. Was I ever that callous and unconcerned with regard to my own health and comfort?...No probably not. But the mothering instinct in me is working overtime. I can hear it now, rising up out of my throat as if under the mind control of thousands of matronly shadowy fugures...
Put a coat on, put a hat on...are you wearing that...Do you want to catch your death?
Granted I take most of my fashion lessons from Mr. Rogers. I mean come on, the guy was
working the cardigan before layering was all the rage. And a more appropriate model for sensible shoes could not be found. In fact, sometimes I think Mr. Rogers would be a good model for some of these misguided ladies.
He would probably use a soft and gentle approach:
"Young ladies...you are special...there is no one else in the world like you.."
"You don't have to be anyone but yourself..."
"When it is cold out...you should always bundle up...protect yourself because you are special."
Yet, I wonder if any of these ladies were watching Mr. Rogers as a kid.
And then I'd have to realize that who I'd really want to finish off this lesson is Captain Kangaroo. He'd know just who to call...Mr. Green Jeans would do his little spin on the catwalk. He'd model his warm, comfy overalls with the stride of a GQ coverboy.
How debonair, how practical, how sensible.
And then Mr. Moose would pelt the ladies with an all out barrage of ping pong balls.