It’s Not Easy Being Green

On Christmas Day, more than a dozen years ago, a large, beautifully wrapped box from my daughter contained an unexpected surprise…a green raincoat. She said, almost haltingly, “I don’t know what made me buy it, but I thought you’d like it.” Indeed, I did. Knee length with a light lining, the shade of green was like a spring lawn or a granny smith apple, and it was a complete departure from her usual gifts: a cashmere scarf, soft sweater, cozy pajamas, a tiny vial of French perfume tucked inside a chic cosmetic purse. I loved it, and it was a perfect fit.

In upstate NY, hopping in and out of a car and running between the drops often makes more sense than donning a raincoat or using an umbrella when it rains (a friend’s daughter recently informed her that no one but tourists use umbrellas in the rain in Washington state, FYI.) So, I don’t get to wear the raincoat too often, like if it’s too warm for a late spring rain, or not warm enough for a dank, drippy autumn day. But sometimes, when an outer layer is needed, it's exactly right. Plus, it’s springy. And has deep pockets. Invariably, someone complements me when I wear it, probably because the color stands out in a sea of tan or black or grey.

As an aside, last summer I bought a navy blue cross shoulder bag, quite neat and small with just the right amount of pockets and zippers. A few weeks later, the bag fell off the back of my chair in a restaurant; the strap had broken. When I took it back to get another, the only one they had left was green.

Unwittingly the two greens came together recently on a rainy day when I grabbed the raincoat on my way to the bank. Oh dear, so much green I realized as I put my shoulder bag on. At the bank, the teller led me over to the desk of the woman I had an appointment with. “Please have a seat, Ms. So and so will be right with you.”

I stopped short. The chair. The darned chair. It was green. The very same green. The exact same green as my coat and my bag. How could this be? I sat down gingerly, stifling an impulse to laugh at the sea of greenery that I was creating. Did I appear as just a floating head above the green? I took off the coat, to lessen the impact.

The following week, I sat on a Manhattan bound subway, having traveled into Brooklyn to stay with my daughter. I was excited to be going into MOMA to see a specific exhibit. As the train rumbled through the tunnel, I saw that I was surrounded by a general populace dressed in black and gray and tan and navy blue; in my green raincoat and green cross bag, I felt like a patch of bright grass in the middle of a sidewalk. Plus, nine out of ten people, men and women, wore sneakers while I……oh no, I wore my favorite, comfortable green ankle boots I’d bought last winter. Green.

What had I been thinking? Clearly, I hadn’t been, but I thought about Kermit and sang the song to myself as we hurtled through the underground.