Coveralls

 
Photo by Aisling Arrington

Photo by Aisling Arrington

I recently received a pair of vintage, insulated, duck cotton coveralls in the mail. I had traded a pair of hand-knit wool socks for them, and with a little hemming and minor adjustments they were ready to be welded to my body until the thaw. After the last mend I made an excuse to wear them out for a short walk to test my work. I was on a mission to get a new car scraper from the little auto supply shop a few blocks away and as I walked I paid exquisite attention to the warmth of my knees, the breeze at my neck, the perfect length that I had hemmed the legs to (the imperfect length that I had hemmed the sleeves to- I've got yarn coming so I can knit some ribbed cuffs). I entered the dim shop and went straight to the counter where a nice car man looked me up and down, taking in my coveralls and work boots paired with a quilted linen backpatch and a smattering of fine handknits in sheepy hues. I wondered what impression they were making in this setting where they fit in better than I did. The car man pointed me in the direction of a box of scrapers and I tried not to laugh at their hot-pink-handled-extendable-reach-girliness because I had just joked with Tavi that I was going out to get us hers and hers car scrapers. Above the flimsy breast-cancer-awareness scrapers I found a picked over box of utilitarian gray cousins to the ancient red scraper I had laid to rest the day before. I picked out two, hers and hers, and made chit chat with the man behind the counter while he rang me up. Yes, the weather, yes it’s cold, I chatted as I absent mindedly noted a breeze at my thigh when the door opened and wondered how to reinforce the insulation of my coveralls there. “Be sure to put this away nice and safe” he instructed as he handed me back my debit card, indicating that the impression I was making was not the hoped for Butch Intimidator. Fortunately I had prepared myself for the possibility of not feeling seen at the car shop with a big ol’ hit of weed so I was able to smile behind my mask and say “thank you” as I sidled out the door, debit card in its place. I slid home down the alleys, scrapers clutched in my mittens, snowflakes melting on my coveralls and eyelashes.

 
Grace Rother