Each year round about this time, my young gal's fancy suddenly turns from flirty skirts and strappy sandals and beachy hair to starry-eyed musings about . . . yes . . . FALL. Never mind that the temperatures are hovering in the high nineties and my cooler runs 24/7 and I can barely stand shoes on my feet, much less clothing on my body. Never mind that BCBG, Banana Republic, and J Crew have begun their strategic assault upon my in box with daily promises of 70 percent off and free shipping and everything but a passel of pit bull puppies and Johnny Depp to hand deliver them.
At this point in the year, my wallet has become Fort Knox and I the $15-an-hour Rent-A-Cop assigned to prevent its breach.
That's because I know that come end of August, the stores are going to be brimming with an entirely new season's crop of cozy knits and suedey boots and tailored pants and woolen caps and unless I want to spend all of October de-pilling last year's sweaters, I must start saving my . . .
. . . wait a minute.
I knew it, just knew it.
I knew there would eventually come a time when, in response to 1982 calling yet again to ask for its shoulder pads back, designers everywhere would simply decide to hang up the phone.
If ever in your life you've wondered whether your wardrobe simply would NOT be complete without a Pepto Bismol-colored, shipping crate-sized "cocoon coat" in which to drown your fashion challenged sorrows? Well, wonder no more: