Thursday, August 2, 2007

Fighting the fleece

I live in Seattle, which means I'm surrounded in fleece. At the farmer's market, on the ferry, in the office, at snazzy restaurants, next to me at the theater. The place is lousy with fleece. There's no sense of occasion. Guys and gals leave their baseball caps on inside. It makes me crazy.

I understand it. It gets damp and chilly here. Fleece is warm and cuddly. It's like being surrounded in furry puppy. I get it. And if truth be told, I own a hoodie or two, a couple of fleece sweatshirts, even a fleece throw that my cat loves to knead (he probably couldn't try that with a furry puppy). But I don't wear fleece unless I'm on a bike, walking around Greenlake, or feeling sick and sorry for myself on the couch. I've been fighting the allure of fleece for a while now and I feel how easy it would be for me to slip into its warm, water-resistant embrace.

That scares the bejeezus out of me. What's next? Going without a slip? Letting my bra strap show? Well, I'll tell you. I just bought, gulp, a backpack for my laptop. A backpack! Like fleece, I believe backpacks do have a the backcountry. I never thought I'd trade in my stylish laptop messenger bag for a backpack. But I'm riding my bike to coffee shops these days and I can't believe it's good for the iBook or my body to have a bag bouncing against my thigh. And my back is a mess. So there's my confession. I have (and love) a laptop backpack. But you'd better believe that it's sleek and urban and won't be holding trail mix or water purification tablets anytime soon. That's what my butt pack is for.

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