In the back of my closet, shoved into a wheat-colored lump, is a darned, patched, stained, bleach-spotted old sweater that I can't get rid of.
It grew like Topsy. Or something. I don't remember getting it or buying it or having it foisted upon me. Every year I swear I'll put it in the donation box, I will, but I just never have the heart to. It's so comfortable, you see. And while brown has never been my colour - I know it washes me out and makes me look even more sallow (although sadly I'm not so sure that's possible) - it's handy to toss on over a t-shirt or jammies and go outside to walk the dog or have coffee with the moms at Literacy class.
Lately, though, my sweater has been doing the unthinkable.
It's shredding.
I was poking the thread through the needle, saving it one more time, when I started musing about how long I've had my sweater. It's been years. But where on earth did it come from? Did I steal it from a roommate? Was it a Mom gift?
Maybe the label would tell me.
Comfort Zone, by George Foreman.
Ooookay. I had as many nights of partying and rock and roll as anyone else, but I know I didn't date George Foreman. Or steal his clothes.
Comfort Zone, by George Foreman.
George Foreman had a clothing line? When, in the downtime between pummeling people and hawking the grill? I was turning the ludicrous picture of George Foreman in all his burly glory strutting down a London catwalk over in my head when I was struck by a horrible thought. This meant that my super comfy, long in the arms, ultra-casual, always-go-to sweater? Is a man's sweater.
And honestly, I don't know which I find more disturbing. That I'm now running through all the Lean Mean Fat Reducing Machine commercials in my head, trying to remember if I saw him dressed in brown,
or the fact that I stitched it up and wore it back out again today.
7 comments:
Mine is a Disney sweater. I don't remember if (1) my Dad gave it to me for Christmas, (2) we bought it at WDW the one time we went or (3) I bought it at the Disney Store.
Mine is a pair of my dad's bell bottom jeans from the sixties. I don't even fit in them any more and they've been patched so much that they'll probably fall apart if I ever do put them on but...they'll hang out in my closet forever.
Mine is a ratty fleece robe, although worn so thin I only know it used to be fleece, because I remember. It hung in my M-I-L's closet for ages. She never wore it and I seriously coveted it. Then one day she just gave it to me. Probably noticed the puddles of drool on the floor in front of her closet! My husband, who never remarks on my clothing, has begged me to throw it out, go buy a new one, but when the chill sets in I continue to reach for it!
It's time. Step away from the sweater. Santy Claus is coming.
Mine is a ratty gray men's long-sleeved teeshirt. I think it was left at our apartment by a visiting friend of my ex-husband's. I thought it was his, washed it, and then stole it. The husband is gone now, but I still wear the teeshirt around the house.
oh honey, send me the sweater! i'll knit it into something sweet for you.
Mine is a way too big for me (ok at one time it was wayyyyyyy too big now it's just big) fleece Cotton Ginny shirt. Buttons and all, now I use it as a housecoat in the mornings when I don;t need a full length one.
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