Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

“Cold hands, warm heart.” – Anonymous

Buying gloves is a ritual I can do without for several reasons. Principally I cannot stand having to put my hands in the exact same place many, many other people’s hands have been. Call it a phobia, call it good hygiene, but I take offense to this being a prerequisite. However, it is impossible to pick a good pair of gloves that fit perfectly without trying them on first. Go figure. Just once when I go to the glove salesman I will see if there are pairs of gloves still in the wrapper, in three different sizes, and buy them all. This way I will get to be the first one to wear them. (“But, dude, there’s gotta be someone who makes ’em that puts ’em on before they bag ’em up.” Shut up).

As difficult as buying gloves is, it should not be a ritual you partake in that often. I mean, winter comes around only once a year, even if it is a particularly harsh one, most gloves are not stylish, and gloves are made with a heartier construction than in the past. So why am I back at the glove salesman every year? I lose things. You name it I lose it. On the subway, in the car, on the way to the dentist, or the golf course, or the opera. I have lost umbrellas, and notebooks, and hats, and scarves, and shoes, and, yes, gloves too. This happens so often I try and keep stocked up on other goods in the event that I will somehow, someday soon lose the item I happen to have with me today. My house looks like a warehouse but I don’t care. At least my hands will be warm come winter.

You see, I am a cold-handed person. Some people are warm-blooded, some people are cold-blooded, but I am cold-handed. Most warm-handed people wouldn’t understand so it goes right over their heads when I mention it, yet that’s the way it is. From the day I was born I have had cold hands. It doesn’t matter the weather, my hands will remain as frozen as a block of herring fresh from the fishmonger’s shop. Most of my girlfriends have lied and told me that it didn’t matter but I could see it in their eyes, I could hear it in their sighs, I could taste it on their lips. They couldn’t stand it, and it drove me insane.

So I bought gloves, and I still buy gloves, and I wear them on many occasions. ‘Tis better and more noble to have worn gloves and been a little odd, than to have shocked and dismayed the pretty ladies with cold hands. I don’t remember who said that but it rings true, and it is my religion. One of these days I will wake up and my hands will be as warm as the person next door, but until then I will live by the gloves. (And sometimes late at night I cry myself to sleep. The gloves make great handkerchiefs).

Sam