This morning, as I waited for the subway in the bitter, bitter cold, it occurred to me to put my gloves on. Do not ask me why I wasn’t wearing them already, because I don’t know; the level of ineptitude with which I approach outerwear baffles me.
But I knew there were gloves in one of the pockets of my overcoat, and they were pretty fabulous gloves: purple with sparkly thread woven through. So I just had to figure out which pocket. This one? Empty. That one? Some receipts from three months ago for God knows what. This one here? Some loose change (low denominations) and a broken pair of iPod headphones. Pocket after pocket, no gloves, and my hands were getting colder and colder, so in a frenzy I thrust each hand into one of the two remaining pockets.
In one were my fabulous gloves.
In the other was an unopened Twix Bar of which I had no memory whatsoever. I didn’t remember buying it, I didn’t remember putting it in my pocket.
Actually, as I think about it, my inappropriate use of outerwear makes total sense; if every time I forget to put something on I find chocolate I didn’t know was there–well, what’s a little limb-endangering frostbite?