For most of this never-ending winter I have worn a pink fur coat, It was at Fashion Bug where I saw it, It looked soft and warm, fuzzy like bunny fur, and too young for me and my 50-something body, I went back three times. Finally, I bought it. I have never regretted it.
That pink fur coat (no rabbits died or were dyed for this coat) has brought me unimaginable pleasure. Wherever I am, be it work play or the nursing home where Mom lived, everybody wants to touch my coat. While stroking its fuzziness they will tell me something about themselves and their lives and their problems. Total strangers will compliment the pink fur coat or say, "I know you! I remember the coat!"
While I would much rather be remembered for my loving nature and gentle ways, I guess the pink fur coat will do. I am invisible without it, invincible with it on.
Who would have thought a coat could cause confidence to grow, make friendships happen, soothe a crying child or even just begin a conversation at Walmart's deli? Somehow, the pink sweatshirt I bought for spring doesn't have the same kick.
If the weather warms (it better warm up soon, Punxy Phil, you miserable rodent), I will take my much-loved pink fur coat to the cleaners and pack it away until the fall. I hope it keeps its magic.
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