The Big Chill

I’ve just discovered the U.K. celebrity website heatworld.com, thanks to an article in The Atlantic, which mentioned heat as one of the biggest offenders in the sizing down of celebrities. Sample content: “Guess whose freaky knee this is….” (Answer: Kate Moss.) Of course, I googled the site post haste. And then immediately found myself in the curious position of sympathizing with Posh Spice.

“Don’t you own a coat Posh?” heatworld’s headline screamed, accompanied by photos of the Spice Girl tottering around London in a couple of sleeveless ensembles. Shocking!

Now, I’m as guilty of gloating as the next person when it comes to celebrity foibles. I love me a good “stars without makeup” feature or “look who has cellulite” expose. Mostly because I’ve read enough interviews where Cameron Diaz or Jennifer Aniston or insert any female star has attributed her glowing skin to nothing more than a soap-and-water regimen or credits her highly toned body to good genes and a high metabolism. More like Photoshop.

But I draw the line at scolding Posh for choosing fashion over warmth. In fact, I admire her for it. And wish I could be more like her.

This week, we reached the point in Chicago where autumn finally beat back summer and temperatures went from the 80s to the 50s. We know that the 30s and the sub-zeros won’t be far behind. Sweaters and coats came out of the closet (or for those of us operating out of more cramped quarters, released from storage bins under our beds). It’s all so depressing.

I hate being cold. I also hate being hot, but I hate being cold more. I hate it more than cilantro, I hate it more than telemarketers, I hate it more than technical support personnel who don’t understand that to me, all wires are called “thingy” and “magiggy.”

So unlike Posh, I usually opt for comfort over style. My arms won’t see the light of day until next June. As the bitter winds of January blow ice off Lake Michigan, I’ll be waiting on an El platform for a train that’s never going to come—swathed in countless layers of long johns, wool and down—and I’ll look at my fellow females, outfitted in adorable skirts (no boots or hose, natch) and the flimsy sort of overcoats that J. Crew passes off as winter wear, and I’ll think a) “I hate you.” And b) “I hope your toes fall off from frostbite.” and c) “Teach me your ways.”