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In honor of my plan to attempt skiing this weekend, I bring you fleece. Warm, plushy fleece that I can't buy for fear of never being willing to take it off. Imagine prying a safety blanket from of the small, grasping fingers of a 3-year-old. The phrase "washing machine" means nothing under such circumstances. Here is my current favorite:

Nice shape, lovely pale blue, perfect for crashing into pine trees and tumbling down bunny slopes.

Alter Ego



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