I possibly say this every single year, but I SWEAR it wasn’t this cold last December. I leaned over to snooze the alarm this morning circa 8am and sleepily took-in the frankly shocking, illuminated fact staring up at me from my iPhone: it was minus two degrees. At 8am. In December. WTF.
It’s at moments like these that I have a tendency to make sweeping statements that I am whole unqualified to make. Things like ‘oh, it’s too cold to snow’. Au contraire, Cox – I woke up on Sunday to the snow day of dreams. Which would have been awesome ANY OTHER DAY except the day I legit need to do nothing anyway.
So I did the obvious: I grabbed my new snow boots and headed to the park for a snowball-ing extravaganza.
Now. I’ve been a skier ever since the delicate age of 3-ish, when my parents decided the twin and I had mastered walking to the degree that we were ready to slide down snowy slopes on planks of wood (not sure how accurate that last bit is – what are skis made of these days??) But what I’ve never been all that great at is the apres bit.
I mean, don’t get me wrong – I am FIRST CLASS at drinking mulled wine, dancing to 80s pop, and getting lost on the way home. But it’s taken me many years to perfect what I wear for this special occasion. You see, until very recently there was a general consensus that you had a choice in life: fashion or function. Choose fashion and you can’t feel your toes by the end of the night. Choose function and you’re unlikely to even get into the party.
Waterproof, snuggly lined with sheepskin, and with arctic grip on the soles. And aren’t they just beaut?? It took me several moments of debating black vs camel vs port, but eventually the pastel pink pom poms swung it.