Puffy Isn't What I'm After

Not the look I'm going for.

To celebrate the New Year, I went shopping. You didn't think I stayed home to watch football, did you?  I would never do that, voluntarily, or without sufficient alcohol in my system. I have my standards. Shopping malls never used to stay open on New Year's Day, or any holiday, for that matter, but now they do, and I'm thinking it has something to do with money. Somewhere around 11 a.m., I heard the call of discounts and pointed my car in the direction of 50 percent off. I had an important mission, one I failed at, miserably. You see, I need a heavy winter coat. I haven't owned a heavy winter coat since, oh, 1977-ish when I spent time in England as a wandering minstrel.

"If I had a winter coat, I'd wear it in the morning... 

I'd wear it in the evening... all over this land..."

Since that time, when I venture into chillier climes, I tend to borrow a heavy coat, and by borrow, I mean go into a random closet and take one. Well, I'm tired of doing that, and they don't serve kugel in jail.  I've heard you'd give me the coat off your back. You want to make good on that?

Not going after this look, either. 

Oh, calm down, you. I don't want your coat. I want my own. Which is how I wound up at Macy's on New Year's Day. After trying on many inflatable jackets that made me look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, I started to cough from all the dust flying off the undesirable outerwear I had inflicted on myself. Before I collapsed in an asthmatic heap of despair, a nice lady walked by, caught me bundled up in what looked like a belted sleeping bag, and set me straight.

"Oh, no, no, no," she said. "You don't want that coat."
"It's hideous, isn't it?"
"It's beyond. You don't want any of these coats."
"Who are you? A spy from Burlington's? Is that a coupon in your hand?"
"I'm just a concerned shopper trying to stop you from making your butt look Kardashian huge."
"That's not what I'm going for."
"Okay, then tell me. Where are you going in your winter coat?"
"I'm going to Kansas in February."
"February? Have you lost your mind? You're going to freeze your booty off."
"What should I do? You seem to know stuff."
"I used to work in retail."
"Guide me."
"Go online. Go to Eddie Bauer. Go to L.L.Bean."
"I will. Maybe. Thank you."
"Now take that puffy thing off this instant. It's doing you no favors."
"It's coming off."

With that, I de-coated, got the hell out of Macy's and wound up at Bloomies, where I found a cute lightweight jacket that would cost me my extremities if, God forbid, I should wear it in Kansas come February. I bought it, anyway. It's for here, not there, silly.

I may have to pass on the ear muffs, too. 

"Oh, look, another leftie like me," the saleslady said, as I signed the receipt.
"We need to stick together," I said.
"All morning, I've had nothing but lefties."
"I'm not a lefty," the woman in back of me said.
"You know," the saleslady said, "lefties are smarter than righties."
"All the best people are," I said.
"You know," the saleslady said, "left-handed people are more likely to survive a stroke."
"If you think you're having a stroke," the woman in back of me said, "go right to the hospital. Don't wait. Waiting could kill you."
"Okay. Thanks," I said.
"I'm serious," the woman in back of me said. "It's very dangerous if you don't go."
"You know, I liked this conversation better when we were talking about how smart left-handed people are," I said, and got the hell out of Bloomies.