this morning

Yesterday, I bought a pair of mittens that are rocking my world.

(And you wonder why people flee this site, holding their burning eyes and screaming, “the boredom, the boredom!”– sort of like the end of Heart of Darkness’ the horror, the horror but, you know, less exciting).

I wasn’t even looking for mittens or remotely aware that I needed them– you know how it goes. You’re in one of those fabulous old New England general stores where each aisle you trundle down reveals more crazy stuff– wood-handled cheese graters next to wrought iron door handles next to beeswax candles next to copper tea strainers next to oven mitts shaped like squid.

My reason for running in there was to gather up some holiday gift-y goodies– seeing as they have THE wall of candy like I imagine exists in jolly old England or some such.

Seriously, the candy wall merits its own photo gallery.

Anyway– there I was, hands full of giant peppermint puffs and little jars of maple sugar, when I come upon a basket of fleece-lined, prettily hand-knit mittens.

Now, I don’t know about you, but mittens do not interest me. For me, they are decidedly old-fashioned (in the not good way), dull, not sexy, not hip.

I am a glove girl, more specifically, fingerless glove girl all the way. However, as the temperatures drop and I spend more time outdoors, bare-handed trying to finagle a particular glimpse from the camera– my fingers, they swiftly become difficult to move as in, they freeze. And when I jam them back into my gloves– each frozen digit relegated to its own channel, sadly separated from their other four pals who might offer warmth and comfort, they remain cold and unwieldy as a fistful of Mrs. Van de Kamps fish sticks.

And yet, it never occurred to me to seek out the solution: the dreaded, make-your-hands-look-like-paws, mitten.

But there I was, arms full gazing down at these fluffy white wonders, that had traveled all the way from the wild, oxygen-challenged peaks of the Himalayas to my little corner in the hills of New Hampshire– and I found myself unable to resist trying one on.

Though, truth be known, in my head the thought was, “don’t waste your time, you know they won’t feel right. Mittens suck.”

Ha. More wrong I could not be.

These babies had fleece lining and once ensconced in their nurturing warmth, my hands broke out in a version of Alleluia that Handel has never heard.

They make me so happy I am really tempted to put them under my pillow at night.

Crazy, right?

But, you know how people talk about something giving them superpowers?

People– I think I found my source of superpower– no lie, white mohair mittens with pale blue snowflakes stitched on top.