Today I wore my mink coat, my thrift shop mink coat, the one that cost $450. in the Angel Thrift shop at 1st Avenue and 88th Street. I wore it because it was fiercely cold outside. I had an appointment for an annual checkup with my eye doctor. I had to go, even though the reporter on the radio said it was going to be 16 degrees, adding, "with the wind/chill factor, it feels like 5 below zero." They love to do that, scare you silly, so you're not sure if you should go out at all.

"Of course I'm going," I said to myself, but I had to wear my warm, cozy mink coat, even though it was Tuesday. Usually, I wear my best clothes on the weekend. I was also concerned that some zealous young person, usually a woman, would spray my coat with white enamel paint. Nontheless, I had no choice. It was 5 below zero! I had to wear my mink coat, the most comfortable, toastiest, rich feeling coat I ever had.

Yes, there was the little white rabbit jacket Cousin Shirley gave me when I was sixteen. Adorable! Too, there was the black Persian Lamb coat Aunt Evelyn insisted I buy if I wanted to attract a rich husband, plus I bought a beige Caracol jacket a year later. I hated them both. They were not warm, nor were they comfortable. The winter cold crept right through their thin leather. Nor did I experience a lineup of men dying to take me out because I wore a fur coat.

Many years later, during my marriage, I bought a very attractive red fox three-quarter jacket that made me look -- well, at least I thought it did -- like an actress or, maybe a call-girl. I had dyed my hair blond then and I thought I looked absolutely divine. My husband did not like the package, at all. Then again, he was such a tight ass puritan. No fun at all.

Years of living went by: a house, a car, children, travel, work, divorce, moving to the city, and suddenly I was sixty. Just think of that number -- 6 with a zero. It's awesome. I'm not sixty. Other people become sixty, seventy, eighty and even ninety, but not me. I am eternally somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, young, gorgeous, wildly attractive to both men and women, and have endless energy to go and do and be.

But, when I became sixty, along with my other thoughts and preoccupations, something was buzzing in my brain and would not go away. It became a clear sign in front of me, writ in large bold black letters. It said, "Go and buy a mink coat." I simply had to have it, a long one with a flare back and a high collar, money or lack of, it didn't matter. It was time.

Like a gift for having lived a long life, a symbol of arrival at an important place, a kind of right of passage into the last quarter of life, when you look back and ask yourself what have I done in my life? Where was I? Was it good? Did I do something worthwhile? Did I make up for all the sadness, the tragedies, the hard work, the things I didn't get, the things I lost? Did I leave a mark, something that people would remember at least for one generation, or will my shadow pass as someone else takes up the space I occupied on this earth?

Recently I told my son, "Robert," I said, "I would like to be cremated. Put the ashes in a skyblue vase, go out to Long Beach on a bright, dry sunny day when it is not crowded and gently scatter my ashes on the sea."

Of course, I don't much like the idea of cremation. Imagine having your body burned down to half a jar of ashes? Horrible. It reminds me of the crematories in the concentration camps. Why would I choose to repeat that horror, that most awful cruelty beyond words? Still, it's better than being put in a box and buried beneath the ground swarming with crawling insects who eventually devour your body as the wooden box deteriorates over the years. To me, that's much worse.

Robert, in his supportive, gentle way said, "Don't worry, Ma. You're going to live a long time. Don't think about it." And, really I don't think about death. It's not high on my list of daily worries and obsessions. Then again, what happened to Jeanne?" "Jeanne who?," you ask. "Jeanne," I reply, "the one whose name is embroidered so beautifully in gold thread, surrounded with tiny rosettes on the brown satin lining of my mink coat."

Now that I am inhabiting Jeanne's coat, I wonder what happened to her? Did she die, or being a woman of money, did she just buy a new coat, a much better one, perhaps one of those honey colored mink coats with a flounce on the bottom? If I wait a few more years, perhaps, I can buy Jeanne's next coat when she casts it off to the Angel Thrift Shop.

Now, I hope you're not getting the idea that I like to go to Thrift Shops. The fact is, I thoroughly dislike thrift shops; the smell of worn out, faded dresses and skirts, the old rags of creased blouses hanging on rows of wire hangars on the racks, the cast off schmatas from other bodies: fat ones, skinny ones, people of all colors and backgrounds, maybe even from China or Alaska, or who knows where?

But Jeanne's mink coat with its beautiful lining and high collar that warms my ears, is different. It makes me feel like a rich lady, a Russian princess, living at the turn of the century. Some people in the bus sneak quick looks at me in my rich looking coat, especially poor people. They must think I am rich, living in a luxurous apartment on the Upper East Side, filled with white upholstered couches and easy chairs, and a bar in shiny black onyx covered with tall, crystal clear glasses and bottles of vodka.

They don't know I am playing at pretend just for today. I am also wearing my new pseudo fur hat that goes with my coat and my high black suede boots. My gloves are the softest black leather with tiny pearl buttons at the wrist. They match my handbag with the little gold buckle. I have used my newest lipstick, a ruby red color that came in the free sample bag from Macy's. I carry my head high, trying to look both taller and patrician. This game I am playing is a lot of fun. I run my hand over the soft, smooth fur on my collar. I feel very pleased with myself, very complete, and life for a moment seems delightful.

Copyright © 2005 Hedy O'Beil