I hated winter clothing when I was a kid. I hated being overly warm, I hated the fuss and the bulk and exertion of putting on multiple layers. I hated constantly struggling to shove all my hair under a hat and always seeming to lose a glove, which made my mother very angry.
I really hated snow pants. I hated the overall feel, I hated the bother of getting them on and then realizing that you had to pee as soon as they were on. In the late days of elementary school there came a year my mother did not buy me snow pants in September and I did not remind her.
(I was totally understanding this time last year when the Irishman told me that his daughter refused to wear them. I came down solidly on the right of a 10-year-old to be cold on the way into the school building. This was contentious as I suspect he expected me to be solidly on the side of a loving and responsible father trying to keep his daughter warm.)
Snowpants are stupid. One of the great (and few) joys of adulthood is that no one can make me wear them. I get to be the master of my pants wearing choices. I revel in this small freedom rather more than a grown woman should.
Save this. Gracie the newish dog is just four. She requires a minimum of 45 minutes of walking and ideally it’s more like an hour and twenty minutes of walking to be a reasonable canine citizen. I have a proper winter parka. In the intervening thirty years, I have learned how to not lose my mitts. I have learned about earmuffs, which keep my ears from frostbite. I’ve learned that I have enough hair to keep my head warm.
And my legs, even with long underwear and pants, freeze. Heather Mallick described the experience of being a child in Northern Canada as long periods of time in which your legs were solid slabs of frozen meat, barely articulatable.
So, snow pants. This is the reasonable and rational thing. This is the sane and sensible decision that Adult Cheryl has made.
Dear Kid Cheryl – I’m sorry. The snow pants are a letdown. I get that. I hate to tell you, but you are also going to be horrified by the number of vegetables you willingly eat and the number of times you willingly go to bed early.