Mittens

Bernie wore mittens to the inauguration.

Handmade for him by a teacher along the campaign trail.

I’m glad he did that.  It was cold.  There were snow flurries.

Plus he’s a Vermont boy.

He became a social media sensation in his big, handmade mittens.

More than Lady Gaga’s red Schiaparelli.  J.Lo’s all-white Chanel. And Ella Emhoff’s bejeweled Miu Miu coat.

Bernie’s mittens trumped them all.

And not just because of the unique fashion statement.  It was the chatter about what it meant politically.  What he was saying.

And not saying.

I personally think he was just being Bernie.  The mittens made sense.

I’ve always worn mittens.

Encapsulating my hands in a cover of warm, fuzzy yarn.

Gloves never cut it for me.  Each finger individually exposed to the cold.  No cozy pouch for all digits to tuck in together.

Ideally, I wish my whole body could be covered in a mitten.  The way babies are swaddled in a christening blanket.

When I was growing up my mother always had a big wooden bowl of mittens in our back hall.  Mittens ready to grab to build a snowman or walk the dog.

My mother knitted those mittens.  Usually from sweaters I’d outgrown.  And when I was little they’d have a ribbon of yarn that connected them.  All the old photos of me in my snowsuit would have a piece of yarn coming out of each sleeve with a mitten attached.

Of course, most of my friends wear gloves.  For them it just makes more sense.

You can text. Hold the steering wheel. Snap things. Pull zippers. Pick up small vegetables.

And if you’re skiing, it’s the signature of a more advanced technical mindset.  Gloves are simply part of the equipment.

I guess you’re either a glove person or a mitten person.

Bernie and I are mitten people.

No agenda.

They just feel good.