When I was little, my mother insisted that I wear the wooliest possible hat in the winter under the erroneous belief that people lose ninety percent of their body heat through their heads.
I suspected this was an old wives’ tale employed by overbearing mothers to make their kids wear the ugliest hats on the planet. However, without solid proof otherwise, I was forced to comply, and recall many years of truly horrible hat hair combined with a case of static electricity so bad it could power a small village.
Years later, I realized that for me, the biggest problem was not actually my head, but my feet. If my feet were cold, the rest of me would be cold. And if my feet were cold, then my husband would be cold, because the first thing I did when I got into bed was stick my cold, clammy feet on him to warm up.
Being the loving wife that I am, I tried my best to keep my tootsies warm and save him from inevitable death by icy wife toes. At first I thought it might help to not shave my legs in the winter. However, this did nothing to help my cold feet and instead resulted in legs so hairy I could pass for a well-preserved wooly mammoth.
This did nothing to help my cold feet and instead
resulted in legs so hairy I could pass for a
well-preserved wooly mammoth.
After twenty odd years of this, it was really no surprise when my husband finally got me the warmest, fuzziest boots he could find on the Internet. I’m sure the purchase was a combination of exasperation from hearing me complain about how cold my feet were, coupled with a desperate attempt to save himself from the shock of a frigid foot assault at bedtime.
I was actually pleased that he got me these boots. They were amazingly warm and worked equally well as outside boots and inside slippers. The only problem was, when I put them on… I looked like a Yeti. The boots weren’t merely furry. They were hairy. Really hairy. I realized it was altogether possible that if I were photographed from the calves down, I could convince people that Sasquatch was alive and well and living in New York.
“Honey, I really love these boots and they are incredibly toasty, but they’re kind of, um, you know, hairy looking,” I confessed to him.
“Who cares?” he responded. “Do they keep your feet warm?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “But if I wear them in public, people might think I’m a Yeti, or possibly, a Hobbit.”
“What’s more important?” he wondered. “ Your comfort or your fashion reputation?”
“Both,” I admitted.
He considered this for a moment. He knew I was very style conscious, but I could tell he was also thinking about the possibility of icy wife toes on his legs at night.
Suddenly he brightened.
“It’s not a problem,” he announced. “The boots actually coordinate with the rest of your winter look,” he declared.
“How do you figure?” I wondered, glancing down at my hairy, Yeti boots.
He grinned. “Now they match your legs.”