I saw no reason to keep something I'd have little use for, given the change in average annual temperature. But I am a wuss about cold and always have been, and haven't really re-adjusted to New York winter yet, despite being back for a few winters now. As the mercury drops this season, I find myself thinking about the reliable warmth of slipping into someone else's skin. I have no compunction about minks, who are nasty, carnivorous little animals who would eat me if they could, but a fur coat isn't what I need at the moment.
I do, however, still have three fur items:
- A vintage black lamb jacket with a fox collar, with "Theresa B." (which is not my name) embroidered on the lining;
- A champagne-colored mink stole with my grandma Lillian's full name embroidered on the tattered lining, a reliable component of my Marilyn Monroe costume; and
- A black fox neckpiece that once belonged to a dear friend's mother, a woman of fierce opinions and style now living in a facility for those with Alzheiner's and limited to a washable, elasticized wardrobe.
Post title from the classic book by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, who gave his name to an obsession, and to the song by the Velvet Underground, from this incredible album. Like wearing a fur with nothing under it, it's most fun to peel slowly and see: