I'm Warming Up to It.

Last winter, I obsessed over a fluffy white jacket that I had no business buying, but couldn't get off my mind. I haunted it for more than a month, stopping by weekly to stroke it and gently peek at the price tag for evidence of a markdown. When the red line finally appeared, I snatched it from the rack, rushed it to the register, and, combined with one of Macy’s famous coupons, shamelessly justified the expenditure.

Though there was still plenty of chill left in the season, I never wore it. Because every time I put it on, I felt like a tramp. Maybe it was the fuzzy fibers that caressed my skin in a way that seemed a little too intimate. Or that whenever I looked in the mirror, I would see in its place those pieced rabbit fur jackets of my youth that were only worn by those girls.

As the weather promises to turn frigid any day, I am faced again with the dichotomy of my desire to wear the coat and the reality of how I think it makes me look.

Good thing I learned a new word last night while watching trashy fashion TV: Slassy. That is, the sweet, esoteric spot in between slutty and classy. Voilà!

Hot (but not too hot) or not?