Last night I celebrated First Fleece. Okay, so last night I also made up First Fleece.
You see, I think there should be a holiday that pays homage to that first glorious day each fall when the temperatures finally dip down low enough to prompt a girl to delve into her closet and pull out her beloved fleece pullover that does nothing for her figure but is oh-so-comfy-and-inviting, like a fabric womb with holes for the wrists and neck.
Of course, First Fleece must be celebrated with just a pinch of sadness, as it is the first indication that one's remaining Birkenstock days are limited. And it must also serve as a sober warning that WTBS (Warm Toasty Bed Syndrome) is now likely to strike on any given morning.
Caveats aside, First Fleece is an event worth celebrating. Even if I'm the only one.