A Coat of Drab Color

For me, the most pleasant element of any crush is the element of surprise. A guy who uses your printer every other day stops in to pick up a few pages he printed on the subject of leopards, and suddenly you start blushing like mad. You meet ten people at a party, and there's one girl you can't stop staring at for her uneasy smile and single glittering chandelier earring.

There is an extra loveliness when the beloved had once been actively disliked, written off, or underestimated. When you see a person with new eyes, the world comes into focus around her. The room is lit differently; the curtains crease along the floor with a new grace. What once was a person's annoying snort is now a sure indicator of a lust for life.

I have a habit of falling in love a few times a week. If the beloved is a person, that's great, but very unusual. Most likely it's an animal, a color, a piece of clothing. Is it strange to be in love with a pattern of black flowers on white cloth? Is it unusual to swoon at the scent of fresh, crisp apples? Is it mad to snuffle a little as you savor the beauty of the cat purring on her back, her paws flexing and fanning in the air?

Surely I am mad. And the latest crush might be my crowning achievement. It's something I had rejected, reviled, and aligned with much of the evil in the world. I have a crush on trenchcoats.

I want a good winter trench. Bona fide girly spywear. Repelling rain and wind-wear. It needs to be fitted but not snug, with the belt cinched tight. It needs to be starch-stiff.

I had a trench once. It was huge, with a bulky wool lining. When I wore it, it was only for emergencies: I looked like a tank. Ultimately it was stolen from a coat room. I was secretly happy to freeze my ass on the sidewalk that night and catch a cab home without it.

And now the blandest, most drab emblem of the Western world is turning my head and turning my heart inside out.

I blame her.

And her.