Reunited with an old friend
It was a ridiculous reason to panic, but there I was.
As the wind whipped around up here on Mt. Crumpit this week, I looked at the wrinkly heap of linen pants in the corner of the bedroom and decided it was time to make the autumn switch.
In the upstairs closet my cold-weather wardrobe waited. To call it a wardrobe would be an upgrade: this was no wardrobe; it was just a bunch of clothes, mostly dark blue and brown and black – enough black turtlenecks to have kept our late and beloved Diane Keaton’s neck concealed forever. I pulled it all down from the shelf, scooped it into a bundle that covered my face, and felt my way down the stairs. I spilled it all onto the bed and began poking through.
It was like visiting old friends: the sweater with the dragonflies; the ridiculously oversized sweater with the moth hole in the sleeve but that I keep because it’s the perfect blue; the crewneck wools in gray stripe and navy blue and black.
The few cashmere pieces I’d sprung for have not held up, having sprouted enough pills to supply a drug store. I’d have to find my sweater shaver and see what I could do about that, but the last time, I shaved a hole in the fabric.
As I pulled out the pieces and folded them for the transfer to my closet, I had a brief spark of a memory. Something was missing.
My orange sweatshirt.
The one I’ve had since my children were teenagers. I don’t remember having bought it, but the tag says Old Navy. I’m guessing I walked into a store, saw it on a table, felt the soft cotton and decided to buy it, probably for twelve bucks or less.
The most I’ve ever spent on a garment was $500, for a Calvin Klein emerald-green silk velvet jacket, purchased for an event 15 years ago. (I might wear it to a wedding next weekend.) Over the years, I’ve worn it probably 30 times, dropping the price-per-serving to about sixteen bucks — an absolute bargain when I think about how that jacket always fits no matter my fluff situation at the time.
The orange sweatshirt was never meant to be attractive. It kept me comfortable and warm. During the COVID quarantine I wore it every day except for laundry day, and it was my go-to in the years before and after that. If I washed it once a week for 10 years, that meant 500 times through the cycle. The amount of orange fuzz I’ve scraped off the lint filter could knit another sweatshirt or four. And price-per-serving? My calculator comes up with .0004th of a penny.
But I didn’t see it in that heap of dark sweaters on the bed. I did find the pink sweatshirt I bought a few years ago. It’s fine, but it’s not the same. A search of other corners and baskets brought a bit of panic. But then I saw an orange arm sticking out of a bundle of denim.
As I pulled it out I remembered: it is threadbare around the neck, one cuff is stretched way out; but the whole thing is comfortably thin, and soft as a puppy’s ear.
I was wearing it when my daughter visited the next day.
“You always wear that sweatshirt,” Grace said.
“It’s just getting good,” I said.
She said something about taking it if I ever get tired of it. Nope, not a chance.