No time to get my glam on

While the majority of the U.S. of A. was hugging its collective sheets this morning after a night of mindless, ritualized overindulgence on New Year’s Eve, I was hard at it for quite some time. It was fully O’Dark 30 when I woke up today, wondering if my humble hearth was alive and kicking with the embers of a fire. Fear of no heat is a deal breaker, and will get you out of bed pretty fast. When I glanced at the clock, it was a little before 5 a.m., meaning "nearly" a respectable time to arise from the cotton-headed land of dreams and take a stab at reality.

No biggie, you say. Guess again. It’s -15 degrees (below zero) outside. If a witch truly had a tit (as the old reference to cold weather goes), it would have frozen off long ago. The witchy woman would no doubt be thumbing through the yellow pages in search of a transplant.

It’s the kind of cold that makes animals go extinct without a problem.

Virtually every morning of my life here at altitude is the same: make the requisite visit to the baño, stumble into the kitchen where my two balls of feline fuzzed determination are poised for their morning snack, grind up some coffee beans so I can pour some liquid reality down my gullet. During the winter I open the doors on the woodstove and try to focus on what’s inside.

I have been heating my various houses with wood since 1975, and I am a past master at the art of keeping my fire alive through the night without getting up at odd times to stoke things up.

(Hint: that’s why 5 a.m. has become such a line of demarcation in my household. Anything before that is somnambulistic insanity. Anything afterward can be “attributed” to being close enough to 6 a.m. that "things" can be "fudged" a "tad.")

I would be an instant expert on TV’s “Survivor,” except for the fact that no one knows I’m alive, and that’s alright with me.

So by the time all of the above has transpired, we are roughly 15 minutes into a new day and a new year. I have no time to be blurry-eyed, as the most important chore of the morn yet awaits me. Like Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard (and that’s another story because, you see, Mother Hubbard Cupboard is bare in my casa), the stack of firewood in the living room is reaching a critically low mass. I have a date with destiny: it's time to haul in the next coupla’days worth of fuel.

The coffee pot has just given up its last steamy sigh, and I know this is good news. Two things you should never attempt to separate: a mother from her young, and a mountain person from her coffee. Both are genetically predisposed to take care of business.

All this deep background brings me to today’s topic. When your day starts out dark and cold, you aren’t exactly concerned about being a fashion plate. I rev into action: thickly-lined cranberry-colored sweatpants, a rust-colored fleece shirt, and turquoise (I’m much too conscious about color to just call them “blue”) socks. I am a color wheel gone mad! I am the Numero Uno candidate for the show, “What Not to Wear.”

Atop this psychedelic paraphernalia goes my black work jacket with its gray sweatshirt-appearing double hood. Somehow, the gray scale seems to tone things down a notch. I will never appear on the cover of Vogue (if indeed it's still being published), and a fashionista would undoubtedly throw me to the wolves and take pure delight doing so.

But I’m a damn sight warmer than a lot of other people who think mini-skirts and tank tops are dress d’jour during the winter.

Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, please note that I have not discussed my boots yet. Most people who muck about in these cold climes sport Sorels. I can’t because the liner is made of wool, and I am highly allergic to wool. I found this out back in the days of mohair sweaters. After begging my mom for one, I finally was the lucky recipient, wearing it on the first day back to high school after the Christmas holiday during my freshman year. By the time I got home, I looked like someone had scoured me with a Brillo pad and sent me home without an excuse.

Sorels are not exactly fashion plate material either in my estimation, although the company is certainly softening the blow and getting into designer booties.

As for me, my lil’ tootsies are sizzly-warm and safely tucked into my Columbia Sierra Sumettes. C’mon, you know they are great looking just by pronouncing every syllable of the name with an intention that’s slow as molasses. A hint of the rugged topped off with the Oh-So-Français-Sounding femininity of a fur (fake) cuff. Doesn’t hurt that they are Thinsulate-lined and warm as Hades. They do not, however, have those oh-so-cute pompoms on the laces that you might expect (my indoor slippers do, however).

So you see, I can, at the very least, trek très chic. And clad so gorgeously, I have managed to spend the ensuing hours shoveling decks and walkways, stocking up on firewood, and tromping around the yard taking photos of the natural drama unfolding in my own back 40.

Thank god the neighbors were asleep for most of the fashion show!