And I tried it on and it fit perfectly. It hugged my curves and fit in the right places and was so perfect I had to do a pirouette. I imagined myself wearing this appropriately plaid peacoat, walking down a street in San Francisco (but not anywhere near the warfield), with a pair of stiletto boots and perfect jeans and my hair fluttering lightly in the gentle breeze. I looked good.
Then I checked the label and it was 53% wool. Which is 53% more wool than I can stand. I love me some sheepies but I can't say I love me some wool industries. Or industry, even.
It's all for the best, really. I'm a coat whore. This is just a sad fact for me. I am always on the lookout for good coats. I have seven, which is really six too many if you think about it. But one is green and perfect with dark blue jeans and pink shoes. Another is dark red for a moonlit stroll with a short black dress. There's the pink one that matches perfectly with my black, pinstripe pants and a white fuzzy top. Oh, and Selma, my most darling and loveable of jean jackets with an overtly fake psuedo don't even think it could possibly be fur trim (it's not fur) which looks good with everything. Then there's my short brown jacket for when I'm feeling sharp and precise and my casual red coat that mixes business with pleasure. The long grey one for days when I feel like the world is boring.
But I want a plaid one and a blue one and one that is a springtime yellow for, you know, spring time. I will never tire of coats.