I'm half Italian. Not the stereotypical southern Sicily Italy, though. No, we're from high in the Alps. Fifty years ago, my family descended from their mountain top villages only to return in the summers, settling in Turin and Milan. Every other year or so, the rest of the American cousins and I return to our heritage. We go to Turin and Milan and we see our fashionable Italian cousins with their Gucci and Prada, and God knows what other designers I both can't afford and probably haven't heard of. I show up in skirts I've bought at Target, sneakers I've worn since high school, shirts from thrift stores. I like what I wear, but I also like that my tastes don't include a pair of $500 sunglasses (yes, my second cousin Valentina actually owns a pair of sunglasses she bought for $500. And, frankly, if you actually think this is okay, you need to start volunteering at a homeless shelter).

In any case, I love my big Italian family, even though there are so many boyfriends and second aunts and cousins through marriage that I can't remember all their names. And they love me, too, even if I'm not the most fashionable girl. They think I'm just a classic 22-year-old American girl, her in those jeans over there.

But today, driving through Broad Ripple, I saw a girl in a tank top. It's 35 degrees outside. She wasn't wearing a coat.

And, hey, we just had that bout of 75 degree weather, so I thought her attire excusable. Maybe she just didn't hear the weather report, y'know? That's entirely possible. But it wasn't the first time I've seen some poor girl convulsing with shivers because she decided to be cute and not wear her coat to the bars.

But some rainy day on one of our family trips to Milan, I asked Valentina why she wore her stiletto heels through the puddles in the cobble stone streets. Don't get me wrong, she worked it well, walked as if there were no puddles, walked as if the streets were cleanly paved, walked as if, no, her feet were certainly not blistering. And what was her answer?

Fashion before comfort, Leeza. Fashion before comfort.

And I laughed at her, but, man. If you're cold, wear a coat! You can even wear a cute coat! Why walk around in next to nothing when it's snowing out? I agree that some sexy black tank with a neckline dipping to your naval is just the hottest thing since the Next Big Fad, but who cares if you're the idiot wearing next to nothing while it's snowing? And I'm sure we've all done it at least once. I admit - I, too, have walked around in heels I thought I could handle in weather that warranted a coat. I even see guys running around in some fashion-savvy tee shirt in December and January, their hands pressed deep into their jeans pockets, all muscles tense, the lot of them laughing at themselves for having left the coat in the car.

Because who really wants to pay for a coat check?

And I think of Valentina, who's talked a thousand times about coming to visit me here in Indianapolis. And I think about what she'd wear, what a hilarious pair we'd make if we were to walk around Broad Ripple. She's told me before that the point of bar-hopping in Turin and in Milan is not to just get drunk - it's to be seen. To be seen. I picture her walking down Broad Ripple Avenue in her strappy stilettos, her short skirts, some designer shirt, the $500 sunglasses, some Italian diva, beautiful and lean and confident because she looks fantastic. I see her strutting into a bar, maybe Landshark's or the Mineshaft, pouty mouth lipsticked with expensive gloss, mascara'd eyelashes worth $30 because she is there to be seen. To be seen.

And me? Well. I'll be wearing a coat because it's cold. And I'll be confident because I feel good, because my fun revolves around more than just what looks good. Because, sure, I care how I look and all, but, oh, Cousin Valentina. Comfort before fashion, la mia amica.