Do you remember your first pair of gloves? You probably don’t, because gloves can’t possibly mean as much to you as they mean to me. My first gloves were teal nylon, lined with pink plush and appliquéd with smiling pink rabbits. They weren’t even true gloves. They were the deformed bastard children of gloves, convertible gloves with mitten tops that folded back. Being a preschooler, I loved them blindly.
I love gloves for their beauty foremost. I love gloves in all lengths, styles, and materials. I find wrist, mid, elbow and opera lengths equally marvelous. Fingerless gloves, buttoned gloves and cutout gloves are all wonderful. I adore gloves made of leather, cotton, silk, and polyester. Even rubber gloves have the ability to be sexy, as Tim Curry proved in The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Gloves’ practicality is a bonus for me. I have Raynaud’s phenomenon, which means my hands have poor circulation in cold weather and when I am upset. Gloves help my hands retain heat in these situations. Raynaud’s is my useful justification for wearing gloves when it is not cold enough for anyone else to need them. I also use gloves to hide the damage to my hands and lower arms. Inkstains; calluses from playing guitar and lacing boots; scars from linocutters, cats, crazy friends, and boxknives can all disappear. When I slip on a pair of long black leather gloves, my hands are instantly perfect and presentable.
Gloves are the perfect fashion accessory. Whereas a woman who amasses expensive shoes or purses is looked down upon as a shallow, materialistic cliché, I can collect as many pairs of lovely, inexpensive gloves as I want and the worst one can say is, “Perhaps she has a fetish.” Well, maybe I do. I believe in gloves.
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