The other day in New York the temperature rose above freezing. To celebrate this feat of nature, I wore a short skirt and woolen tights. And, of course, my boots—the ones that have trudged through two winters’ worth of snowstorms, so covered in melt that they’re less black than they are gray.

During my lunch break, I went for a walk down 17th street in search of a cookie or some other sweet treat to snack on for the afternoon. Two women in early middle age approached on the same side of the street. They glared derisively at me.

“Here comes the sexy parade,” said one to the other as they passed.

The sexy parade? I’m the sexy parade?

In New York City—abundant with freaks and weirdos—who comments on what someone else is wearing?