I’m in love …. with a sweater.
I’m shallow like that.
I recently splurged on it online, even though the house rules clearly state, “No shopping for yourself during the holidays”. I’m shallow and a rule breaker. James Dean eat your heart out.
Initially I couldn’t resist the color; It was like if soft mint green met up with baby blue and had a child. Add to that, the perfect price point, and how the softness of it came screaming thru my computer screen. Before I knew it my fingers were clickity-clicking on that cyber cart faster than you can say Free Shipping.
And then the sweater arrived. Possibly within moments, because I think it might be a magical sweater too. I am pretty sure when I opened the box a tiny little herald of angels came out, trumpeting the arrival of The Sweater. I opened the bag that contained The Sweater and I swear softness spilled out like warm molasses. I touched it and all those little fuzzies, the eyelashes, I think they touched me back. I ran my hand across it and murmured how beautiful it was. My first thought in touching it was that it felt like it was made from a hybrid of the world’s softest chinchillas made only softer with the interwoven flesh of baby angels.
“I’m sooooo schwaft” whispered the sweater, “Twy meeeee”
I knew it was love the instant I put it on. Not because it made me radiate beauty. Quite the contrary. It is ugly on me. Crew neck that makes my broad shoulders 6 inches broader. I look like a man in drag in crew neck. To mock me further, the sleeves weren’t quite short and not quite three-quarters either. Just about elbow length. That is about as flattering as hippo in a tutu. But when I slipped the sweater on, my entire body, — it sighed. It was that soft. I moved and the sweater moved like liquid around me. Tiny little peals, like the laughter of unborn children surrounded me.
I looked at this sweater the same way a mother looks at her ugly baby and knows. Simply knows. “Yes you are an ugly little thing, but I sense goodness in you.” I, the queen of vanity didn’t care that this large swath of fuzzy goodness would look hideous on me. I didn’t see the ugly. I felt sweet in it. I felt soft. I felt demure, and diminutive. My boobs, while from the inside were actually giggling against the fabric, looked heavy and dowdy in the sweater. I didn’t care. I felt myself taking less assertive steps, and more dainty little clicking steps. I denied the mirror image looking back at me as I washed my hands, and admired how the softest of whispers made the fuzzies almost bloom. I morphed into Cinder-freaking-ella.
But love doesn’t always last. Sometimes Fate pulls a cruel trick on us. I think my merely wearing The Sweater … is killing it. Like the contact of my human skin against this heavenly fabric was causing it to quickly die. I immediately noticed that the little eyelashes (made from newborn kittens I suspect) started to shed. It’s gagging me on its goodness, with fibers of laughter & whispers sticking in the back of my throat. My nose is filling up with tiny little fuzzballs of chinchilla-angel-babies and I am most certainly allergic to tiny-peals-of-laughter, as the hives on my back and shoulders suggest.
I know the sweetness of this beauty-within-a-beast doesn’t mean to harm me. That it means no ill will. But out of sheer love, when I get home I think I am going to take it out back and shoot it. And then bury it. And then pour concrete over it.
Cause that’s just how I love. Again, eat your heart out James Dean.