Dear "Real World,"
There's no easy way to say this. We've been apart for a while now and, well...I think I'm just better off without you. I'm like a different person -- taking helicopter rides, going on sunset sails, attending luaus, drinking before noon -- and I haven't worn long pants in weeks!
You and I, we were just going through the motions. After some time passes, I think you'll realize that you're better off as well. It's not you, it's...
Oh, who am I kidding? It's totally you! You suck. Hard.
Please don't call me anymore.
With Disdain,
Mary
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
For My Grandma
You had this habit of saying, "Hiya, Kid!" and grabbing us grandkids by the back of the neck. It kind of hurt, but we didn't mind.
You were the ultimate grandma in so many ways--you always had Snickers in the fridge, and you were a hell of a cook. Cheeseburgers and lasagna were your specialty, even though you didn't like cheese (I often wondered how we were even related!).
You gave the world's worst Christmas presents--but the fact that you were consistent made your presents some of the most looked-forward to.
I always looked forward to your visits, even when I was in Kindergarten and you were visiting Germany all the way from Florida. We always had an ancient electric blanket that came out only when Grandma visited. You could never handle the cold, but the pictures of you bundled up in my dad's winter coat are priceless. And numerous.
You took my brother and I to the beach, which must have been so frustrating, because we were definitely indoor kids who got sick of the beach within 20 minutes. So you'd take us home, fix us dinner on TV trays, and we'd watch Charlie's Angels on the couch. You made everything special.
When you got sick, and finally had to go into the nursing home, you would hallucinate that you were babysitting me and my brother--even though we were both over 30. I can't tell you how guilty that makes me feel. I'm sorry I was a long-distance granddaughter.
One time when you were visiting, when I was around 10, my Dad was participating in some kind of cross-dressing fundraiser pageant at church. He borrowed your bra, which he proceeded to fill with giant pinecones and wear. You were happy to help. I love that my dad and I got that stupid sense of humor from you.
Like I said, you were a hell of a cook. One time, Jeremy and I came to visit on our way to Disney World. You asked, "Are you hungry?" I said we'd eaten already, to which you responded, "There's a ham in the fridge." And no, not ham slices...an actual entire ham. And you were still surprised when we didn't eat it.
You lost your parents when you were young; you would never talk about it. and I regret not pushing you harder. But in later years you were happy to talk about my Grandpa, who died when I was 4. You truly were the "greatest generation." He was in the Army Air Corps, and would have been sent to Okinawa if he hadn't have been involved in a serious crash in Columbia, SC during a practice mission. And still, he and the pilot, who was his buddy, posed for these ridiculous pictures in their full body casts--with the bellies cut out, because it was summer in Miami and, of course, incredibly hot. He went to U of Miami on the GI bill, and when he graduated, my dad and his twin sister were in the audience. "That's my daddy!" my dad apparently called out. If I had a time machine, that's one of the moments I'd travel back to.
The last time I visited, you were lucid, but couldn't hear (you'd been deaf for a long time). The rest of us were looking up at a light fixture, talking about how someone had hooked it up so that furniture could be moved around. All you saw was your family looking up at something, and so you asked, "What is everyone looking at?" And even when it must have been so frustrating to not be a part of the conversation, you still got the joke.
I love you, Grandma.
You were the ultimate grandma in so many ways--you always had Snickers in the fridge, and you were a hell of a cook. Cheeseburgers and lasagna were your specialty, even though you didn't like cheese (I often wondered how we were even related!).
You gave the world's worst Christmas presents--but the fact that you were consistent made your presents some of the most looked-forward to.
I always looked forward to your visits, even when I was in Kindergarten and you were visiting Germany all the way from Florida. We always had an ancient electric blanket that came out only when Grandma visited. You could never handle the cold, but the pictures of you bundled up in my dad's winter coat are priceless. And numerous.
You took my brother and I to the beach, which must have been so frustrating, because we were definitely indoor kids who got sick of the beach within 20 minutes. So you'd take us home, fix us dinner on TV trays, and we'd watch Charlie's Angels on the couch. You made everything special.
When you got sick, and finally had to go into the nursing home, you would hallucinate that you were babysitting me and my brother--even though we were both over 30. I can't tell you how guilty that makes me feel. I'm sorry I was a long-distance granddaughter.
One time when you were visiting, when I was around 10, my Dad was participating in some kind of cross-dressing fundraiser pageant at church. He borrowed your bra, which he proceeded to fill with giant pinecones and wear. You were happy to help. I love that my dad and I got that stupid sense of humor from you.
Like I said, you were a hell of a cook. One time, Jeremy and I came to visit on our way to Disney World. You asked, "Are you hungry?" I said we'd eaten already, to which you responded, "There's a ham in the fridge." And no, not ham slices...an actual entire ham. And you were still surprised when we didn't eat it.
You lost your parents when you were young; you would never talk about it. and I regret not pushing you harder. But in later years you were happy to talk about my Grandpa, who died when I was 4. You truly were the "greatest generation." He was in the Army Air Corps, and would have been sent to Okinawa if he hadn't have been involved in a serious crash in Columbia, SC during a practice mission. And still, he and the pilot, who was his buddy, posed for these ridiculous pictures in their full body casts--with the bellies cut out, because it was summer in Miami and, of course, incredibly hot. He went to U of Miami on the GI bill, and when he graduated, my dad and his twin sister were in the audience. "That's my daddy!" my dad apparently called out. If I had a time machine, that's one of the moments I'd travel back to.
The last time I visited, you were lucid, but couldn't hear (you'd been deaf for a long time). The rest of us were looking up at a light fixture, talking about how someone had hooked it up so that furniture could be moved around. All you saw was your family looking up at something, and so you asked, "What is everyone looking at?" And even when it must have been so frustrating to not be a part of the conversation, you still got the joke.
I love you, Grandma.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
It's Time to Kick Some Asteroid
Update!
Following my rediscovery of what I now refer to as the "Hippie Mary Photo," I confronted my mother and demanded an explanation. She conceded that the mustard yellow turtleneck and matching bell bottoms were, in fact, part of my regular wardrobe ("They were hand-me-downs from the neighbors," she said. Sure, play the "we didn't have much money" card.)
"But what about the hat?" I asked. Her response? "You did that yourself!"
"What?" I replied. "Look at the jaunty angle--a toddler can't capture that jaunty angle!"
"I'm sure you did it yourself," Mom said. "I wouldn't have taken the time to do that!"
As for the furry shawl-slash-curtain-tassel, the only thing I discovered was my grandmother made it for my mom as a gift--thus cementing the family lore that "Grandma gives weird-ass gifts." (e.g., the Burt Bacharach box set I received for Christmas. I was 15 at the time.)
I Am Apparently a Heartless Automaton
A Facebook friend always asks questions as her status updates. Today's was, "What makes you smile?" I responded this morning, and have been receiving other responses throughout the day--responses that make me feel about as loving as Mr. Burns. Their answers? Children, grandchildren, pets, nature, etc. My answer? The movie Dodgeball. I mean, come on, people--what's your beloved offspring compared to grown men getting pegged in the groin with a rubber ball? Am I right?
Premiering after "Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?"
It's hot as Hades here. Yesterday, in order to preserve my sanity and my Scotch-Irish skin, I caught the commuter train a station earlier than I normally would, just so I could wait inside. Hooray for self-preservation! The flaw in the plan? This necessitated me getting on the red line. Now, I'm not the type of girl that expects men to open the door for me or let me pass first, but is it too much to ask that you not shove me??? After a mere two stops I was clenching my fists in a strained effort not to kill someone with my bare hands.
Crisis was somehow averted, but Jeremy, having seen the state in which I arrived home yesterday, forbade me from riding the red line today. Still, as the thermometer creeps up throughout July and August, how long can I hold out in the Sophie's Choice of "skin cancer vs. commuter violence"? I fear I'm only one pushy commuter encounter away from having my own special on the Lifetime Movie Network.
Tonight at 9 pm: Homicide on the Red Line: the Mary Barron Story.
Tagline: 'This commute's a real bitch.'
Starring Meredith Baxter Birney, Lisa Rinna, and Mr. T.
Following my rediscovery of what I now refer to as the "Hippie Mary Photo," I confronted my mother and demanded an explanation. She conceded that the mustard yellow turtleneck and matching bell bottoms were, in fact, part of my regular wardrobe ("They were hand-me-downs from the neighbors," she said. Sure, play the "we didn't have much money" card.)
"But what about the hat?" I asked. Her response? "You did that yourself!"
"What?" I replied. "Look at the jaunty angle--a toddler can't capture that jaunty angle!"
"I'm sure you did it yourself," Mom said. "I wouldn't have taken the time to do that!"
As for the furry shawl-slash-curtain-tassel, the only thing I discovered was my grandmother made it for my mom as a gift--thus cementing the family lore that "Grandma gives weird-ass gifts." (e.g., the Burt Bacharach box set I received for Christmas. I was 15 at the time.)
I Am Apparently a Heartless Automaton
A Facebook friend always asks questions as her status updates. Today's was, "What makes you smile?" I responded this morning, and have been receiving other responses throughout the day--responses that make me feel about as loving as Mr. Burns. Their answers? Children, grandchildren, pets, nature, etc. My answer? The movie Dodgeball. I mean, come on, people--what's your beloved offspring compared to grown men getting pegged in the groin with a rubber ball? Am I right?
Premiering after "Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?"
It's hot as Hades here. Yesterday, in order to preserve my sanity and my Scotch-Irish skin, I caught the commuter train a station earlier than I normally would, just so I could wait inside. Hooray for self-preservation! The flaw in the plan? This necessitated me getting on the red line. Now, I'm not the type of girl that expects men to open the door for me or let me pass first, but is it too much to ask that you not shove me??? After a mere two stops I was clenching my fists in a strained effort not to kill someone with my bare hands.
Crisis was somehow averted, but Jeremy, having seen the state in which I arrived home yesterday, forbade me from riding the red line today. Still, as the thermometer creeps up throughout July and August, how long can I hold out in the Sophie's Choice of "skin cancer vs. commuter violence"? I fear I'm only one pushy commuter encounter away from having my own special on the Lifetime Movie Network.
Tonight at 9 pm: Homicide on the Red Line: the Mary Barron Story.
Tagline: 'This commute's a real bitch.'
Starring Meredith Baxter Birney, Lisa Rinna, and Mr. T.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Hay HAY Hay!
Can we discuss this photo for a moment? One might take a quick glance and think, "Oh, surely she's playing dress up!" That knit beret? It lived in our "dress-up drawer" for many a year. And that fringy shawl thing can't actually be an article of clothing, can it?
However, as my loving husband pointed out—those plaid bellbottoms and that mustard yellow turtleneck actually fit. I’m not playing; I'm merely a toddler in the late 1970s. Meaning…my mother did this to me. How could this ever have been considered OK—even on a child as adorable as I was? Was she taking me to audition for What's Happening?
Occasionally I'll hear stories from my parents that seem completely out of whack with who they are today. For example, my Dad recently told me about how he used to feed the family dog beer at parties. I can only HOPE that this outfit is one such incident—ill-advised, out-of-character, and merely a "snafu" on the path to respectability.
But for God's sake, Mom…MUSTARD YELLOW???
Saturday, March 20, 2010
To the Douchebag who Stole My Wallet
I was in Chili's. Because my mother-in-law had given us a gift certificate. It's not a fancy place--there aren't hooks under the bar for your purse. So the bag went on the floor. Little did I know that the bartender would actually card me--leading me to reach down and pull up my bag with one strap. Was that the moment my wallet fell on the floor? I'll never know.
What I DO know is that, if I found a wallet on the floor of the bar, I'd hand it to the bartender and say, "Hey, I found this on the floor. We should take care of it so that some douchebag doesn't abuse it."
So, hey, douchebag who took my wallet and used my check card, then my credit card, then my other credit card...
I volunteer with my church's youth group. I donate to ASPCA. I work for an organization that strives for affordable housing. No, I'm not perfect...but I gotta think karma's on my side. So, "Gird your loins," Douche Bag. We're on to you.
And I'm cuter.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
They said I was a valued customer. Now they send me hate mail.
Have we discussed how annoying it is that Ann Taylor only has one hook per dressing room? I mean, never mind if you have so much stuff you need two hooks-—what about the sorting system? This hook for keepers, that hook for “crap that makes you look like Martha Stewart on a Cheetos bender.” You wind up juggling piles of clothing in an attempt to make some sense of order out of them, and end up buried under a pile of sensible slacks and merino wool sweaters. I bet they don’t put up with such crap at Bergdorf’s (but I wouldn’t know. I don’t think they let people like me in there).
In other news, I've finally decided what I will wear to the Oscars, should I ever live out my fantasy of winning an award for a behind-the-scenes category such as "Art Direction," then being so charming and beautiful during my acceptance speech that I am pronounced "America's Darling" in the following day's People magazine. (What? It could happen!)
David Meister and Bvlgari:
Sadly, they don't sell those at Ann Taylor.
In other news, I've finally decided what I will wear to the Oscars, should I ever live out my fantasy of winning an award for a behind-the-scenes category such as "Art Direction," then being so charming and beautiful during my acceptance speech that I am pronounced "America's Darling" in the following day's People magazine. (What? It could happen!)
David Meister and Bvlgari:
Sadly, they don't sell those at Ann Taylor.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
I don't like the dark here, it keeps eating my pencils.
I had some blood drawn at the doctor’s office the other day. No big deal. So when I heard the message on my voicemail that asked me to call them, instead of them just leaving the “don’t worry, everything’s good” message, I freaked out a bit. Good God, what’s wrong with me? Cancer? Leprosy? Hemorrhoids?
Turns out I have a vitamin D deficiency--no big deal, just have to take a prescription supplement. I do wonder if this deficiency has contributed to my general depressive state as of late--it'd be nice to have an excuse, anyway.
Still, I'm baffled. Even in the dead of winter, wearing SPF 28, this chick's pale, pale skin can suck up the sun. In spin class the other day, the instructor was trying to help the class gauge when they're working too hard. "When you look in the mirror, and your face is bright red...then you're working too hard." Yes, pretty simple. And yet, she continued, "Unless, of course, you are Scottish or Irish in origin."
And, I am not exaggerating, the woman looked directly at me while saying this. Anyway, good news! I'm not out of shape--I'm merely Irish. That's a relief.
Bring on the potatoes and the Guinness.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Ah, hon, ya got Arby's all over me.
I think the diminished number of weirdos in Las Vegas says a lot about the current economic climate. There weren't many sightings beyond what Jeremy dubbed the "strange, old, rich people." Jeremy was lucky though--he spotted an Elvis impersonator in the CVS. What was he shopping for? Perhaps some "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Hemorrhoid Cream"? Apparently the drugstore chain is a favorite among the Elvis-wannabe set...quite the "Love Me Vendor." (OK, OK, I'll stop now.)
The pictures are few and far between, but I think this one speaks for itself (OK, not at all, really, but I enjoy its bizarreness too much to try to explain):
We did go out for a nice dinner one evening...
...aaaaannnd here I am the morning after, attacking the leftovers:
Lovely, I know. Sorry, guys, I'm taken!!
Naturally, because we spent 5 days in sunny, temperate Las Vegas, Mother Nature decided to make us pay with "Snowmageddon 2010." Yes, the storm has a name. It also has a little-known slogan: "When you run out of beer, not even the snow plows can hear you scream."
We'll just say that supplies are dangerously low. It's Beer v. Blizzard, 2010...who will win out? Stay tuned.
The pictures are few and far between, but I think this one speaks for itself (OK, not at all, really, but I enjoy its bizarreness too much to try to explain):
We did go out for a nice dinner one evening...
...aaaaannnd here I am the morning after, attacking the leftovers:
Lovely, I know. Sorry, guys, I'm taken!!
Naturally, because we spent 5 days in sunny, temperate Las Vegas, Mother Nature decided to make us pay with "Snowmageddon 2010." Yes, the storm has a name. It also has a little-known slogan: "When you run out of beer, not even the snow plows can hear you scream."
We'll just say that supplies are dangerously low. It's Beer v. Blizzard, 2010...who will win out? Stay tuned.
Friday, January 29, 2010
No, but a four-hundred-pound wino offered to wash my hair.
Some Drive-Bys:
* Last weekend I went to Rehoboth with my dear friends La and Signe. There was outlet shopping, hot tubbing, wine drinking, light-hearted mocking…I heart my giggly friends. What I did NOT heart was being the first to arrive at the beach house, which was cold, dark, and interminably creepy. I ventured throughout, turning on lights and thermostats. I was even brave enough to go down to the basement, where I flipped what I thought was a light switch—turns out it was for a fan in a room I couldn’t see. Thus, some lovely chug-chug-chug noise started up, scaring the bejeezus out of me.
That’s when I went upstairs and opened the bottle of wine.
I huddled on the couch and watched Friends until the real-life ones showed up to rescue me from whatever sinister force was clearly lying in wait for me in the Beach House of Death.
* Jeremy flew up to Boston for work yesterday. I had left my car at the VRE station the night before; he suggested I drop him off at work so he wouldn’t have to park at the airport, and I could drive his car for the day. All well and good—until I got in the driver’s seat and realized that the warning lights for gas, windshield wiper fluid, and engine were ALL ON. That’s three (3) warning lights, people. Thankfully we stopped by the gas station, and Jeremy took care of two of them. I begrudgingly pulled into a parking space in front of his office and let him out (I had suggested that, to save time, he could merely tuck and roll, and I would toss his suitcase out after him. I think four warning lights would have pushed me over the edge on that one…)
* We’re off to Vegas on Sunday, so expect some bizarre people-watching-related blog entries (last time we were there, a dude in a cow suit was parked at the slot machines at the MGM Grand). Also expect that, if I hit the jackpot, I will retire at the ripe old age of 31 and spend my days in secluded luxury, quietly mocking passersby from my custom-made hyperbaric chamber.
* Last weekend I went to Rehoboth with my dear friends La and Signe. There was outlet shopping, hot tubbing, wine drinking, light-hearted mocking…I heart my giggly friends. What I did NOT heart was being the first to arrive at the beach house, which was cold, dark, and interminably creepy. I ventured throughout, turning on lights and thermostats. I was even brave enough to go down to the basement, where I flipped what I thought was a light switch—turns out it was for a fan in a room I couldn’t see. Thus, some lovely chug-chug-chug noise started up, scaring the bejeezus out of me.
That’s when I went upstairs and opened the bottle of wine.
I huddled on the couch and watched Friends until the real-life ones showed up to rescue me from whatever sinister force was clearly lying in wait for me in the Beach House of Death.
* Jeremy flew up to Boston for work yesterday. I had left my car at the VRE station the night before; he suggested I drop him off at work so he wouldn’t have to park at the airport, and I could drive his car for the day. All well and good—until I got in the driver’s seat and realized that the warning lights for gas, windshield wiper fluid, and engine were ALL ON. That’s three (3) warning lights, people. Thankfully we stopped by the gas station, and Jeremy took care of two of them. I begrudgingly pulled into a parking space in front of his office and let him out (I had suggested that, to save time, he could merely tuck and roll, and I would toss his suitcase out after him. I think four warning lights would have pushed me over the edge on that one…)
* We’re off to Vegas on Sunday, so expect some bizarre people-watching-related blog entries (last time we were there, a dude in a cow suit was parked at the slot machines at the MGM Grand). Also expect that, if I hit the jackpot, I will retire at the ripe old age of 31 and spend my days in secluded luxury, quietly mocking passersby from my custom-made hyperbaric chamber.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Sometimes I think you ain't got the sense God gave a lemon!
So lately I’ve been enjoying the Barnes and Noble eReader on my iPhone. I have a long commute, and a high tolerance for crap novels, so I’ve been working my way through the eBooks they offer for free. The other day, having grown tired of Harlequin romance novels (see note re: high tolerance for crap) (and also, their “military-themed” romances with the tagline “The Few. The Proud. The Sexy as Hell,” always makes me giggle out loud.), I downloaded a book that didn’t have a synopsis, but that I was pretty sure wasn’t a cheesy romance novel.
I was right. It wasn’t. What it was, was gay erotica. Now, I have no problems with gay erotica per se, but it doesn’t do much for me. Also, I felt a little weird reading it on the train. Still, the worst thing about it was the GRAMMAR. I am shocked—SHOCKED—at the low grammatical standards for pulp gay erotica. Also, dialogue exchanges such as this made me want to pluck out my eyelashes:
“Thanks Mr. Austin You da man”.
That’s exactly as it’s written – I take no credit for the grammar or content of the above. It made the Harlequins look like Tolstoy.
On an entirely different note, who decided that the years 2000-2009 would be dubbed the “Aughts”? As if I didn’t feel old enough already, I have to tell the story of my twenties sounding like a grumpy old fart??
**Gross throat-clearing noise**
“Back in Aught-Four,”
**adjusts ratty bathrobe**
“Janet Jackson sang a ditty with that Timberlake feller during the SuperBowl…”
**shuffles slippers**
See what I mean?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Would you please put some pants on? I feel weird having to ask you twice.
So what happened to the rest of November and December? Well, mix the holidays with two ailing grandmothers, horrible news from dear friends, and a wee bit ‘o seasonal depression, and you get…a lady who doesn’t feel much like writing. So, here are some niblets going a ways back:
1. Communion at an unnamed southern church: At our home church, communion is prefaced with “the table is open to all who proclaim Jesus as lord,” or some such statement. However, this church we visited had the longest list of what Jeremy dubbed “fine print” that I had ever heard: you had to be confirmed, repentant (really, truly repentant – if you’re not completely and totally 100% sorry, don’t even think of taking communion), able to walk on water, dressed by joyous songbirds in the morning…it went on and on. And my favorite part: if you weren’t worthy, “don’t worry about skipping communion, nobody’s watching.” Which pretty much guarantees that everyone is watching.
My stubbornness almost prevented me from taking the juice and bread when it was passed, but I did so to keep the peace. Of course, I inhaled a bit of flour when eating the bread and started coughing. My first thought? “Ack! It’s rejecting me—I’m not worthy!”
2. I started a spinning class last night. Let’s just say that “hovering” is not as fun and sci-fi as it sounds.
3. I got to spend a little time with my niece and nephew on Thanksgiving Day. There is nothing as great as hearing a 2.5 year old girl attempt to say “Spongebob Squarepants.” This exchange was a close second:
Me, upon being presented with a plastic bag full of little toys: Oh, look, what a neat car!
My niece: No, it’s a Transformer (pronounced ‘Twansfowma’)!
Yup, she’s definitely my brother’s kid.
And finally,
4. I have been known to rant about the occasional clothing trend (gladiator sandals—ick). Now, this is not so much a popular fashion trend as it is an unfortunate “DC worker bee” trend. I give you what I have dubbed the ‘sleeping bag coat’:
For the love of God, people. This is not Alaska. It’s not even Maine. If your coat doesn’t cover your ankles, you’re probably not going to die. However, if your coat does cover your ankles, it makes something inside of me die. So please, invest in a nice, wool peacoat. Do it for me.
1. Communion at an unnamed southern church: At our home church, communion is prefaced with “the table is open to all who proclaim Jesus as lord,” or some such statement. However, this church we visited had the longest list of what Jeremy dubbed “fine print” that I had ever heard: you had to be confirmed, repentant (really, truly repentant – if you’re not completely and totally 100% sorry, don’t even think of taking communion), able to walk on water, dressed by joyous songbirds in the morning…it went on and on. And my favorite part: if you weren’t worthy, “don’t worry about skipping communion, nobody’s watching.” Which pretty much guarantees that everyone is watching.
My stubbornness almost prevented me from taking the juice and bread when it was passed, but I did so to keep the peace. Of course, I inhaled a bit of flour when eating the bread and started coughing. My first thought? “Ack! It’s rejecting me—I’m not worthy!”
2. I started a spinning class last night. Let’s just say that “hovering” is not as fun and sci-fi as it sounds.
3. I got to spend a little time with my niece and nephew on Thanksgiving Day. There is nothing as great as hearing a 2.5 year old girl attempt to say “Spongebob Squarepants.” This exchange was a close second:
Me, upon being presented with a plastic bag full of little toys: Oh, look, what a neat car!
My niece: No, it’s a Transformer (pronounced ‘Twansfowma’)!
Yup, she’s definitely my brother’s kid.
And finally,
4. I have been known to rant about the occasional clothing trend (gladiator sandals—ick). Now, this is not so much a popular fashion trend as it is an unfortunate “DC worker bee” trend. I give you what I have dubbed the ‘sleeping bag coat’:
For the love of God, people. This is not Alaska. It’s not even Maine. If your coat doesn’t cover your ankles, you’re probably not going to die. However, if your coat does cover your ankles, it makes something inside of me die. So please, invest in a nice, wool peacoat. Do it for me.
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