When I woke up last Thursday morning (the day of my flight to Seattle) I decided to go with the outfit plan that I’d set out the day before: black skinnies, black top, black blazer, black coat, leopard scarf and flats. The idea was to be comfortable and weather appropriate.
Of course this begs the question, which weather? Texas = roads iced over and below freezing. Seattle = 40 degrees, little bit of rain (way to be cliché Seatown). Outfit is not weather appropriate for departure, but fine for arrival in Seattle.
I realized this. And the husband realized this. But I thought, “eh, I’ll live.” And he let me think that. Really this is all his fault.
I forgot that we weren’t just hopping in the truck and driving to the airport. No, we were trekking through snow on the sidewalk to get to the truck. We were standing outside at a train station waiting to board. We were standing at a bus stop to go from train station to airport parking. Bus doors open frequently. Bus is small. Cold air gets everywhere. We were standing at yet another bus stop to get to the airport., And on another bus. That has doors. That is small. And the airport is not warm until you get past security, away from the winds coming through the ALWAYS open doors. And it would help if you got off the bus at the correct portion of the terminal. But you didn’t. So you had to go back outside in order to get to the right ticketing area.
Basically, I should have worn something to cover my bare feet but I was dumb and my feet froze. I was kind of smart and packed some big fluffy purple socks that I finally took out of my bag and placed on my feet (when it is cold, fashion and fear of looking foolish, and all pride in general, should be tossed out the window), but only after my toes were on their way to freezing.
Don’t worry, I survived… but let this be a lesson to you all: leopard print and leopard skin are two entirely different things.
Leopard skin: provides warmth… weatherproof
Leopard print: pretty… pretty.
Oh, and this is also a lesson in this situation being The Guns’ fault