The winter in New York City brings with it a collection of ridiculously poofy jackets. I’m not saying these coats aren’t effective. I own two. They just look a little silly.
But when we wear them underground, and cram ourselves together in a subway car at rush hour, they become a problem. Some of these jackets double a person’s width. And nobody can control the hems of the longer varieties. Flayed jacket tails obscure newspapers and brush cheeks with regularity.
One of the very welcome aspects of spring will be jumping into a waiting subway car without tucking in the edges of my marshmallow coat. It’ll feel like freedom.
For about two weeks, that is, until the heat becomes so oppressive down there that I’ll long for the onset of the next winter.