The sweater has a reputation as a fine friend. All warm and fuzzy. Cuddly, even. If not entirely supportive, not especially demanding either. The sweater offers big hugs and little commentary. It’s a good listener.
And yet the sweater collection always seems to harbor one member you cannot help but loathe.
It’s not really this sweater’s fault. It’s sweet. Pink. Warm, of course. Cloyingly so. Not so aggressively woolly to qualify as itchy. Just irritating.
Its approach to fit, like most sweaters, is lax. No buttons or zippers or other affectations of the blouse section. It does flaunt a crisscross of seams that suggest high style. And still, despite such efforts, it’s just another big sweater that starts high and ends low, with pink fuzz bunched in between. You know the type: endless.
You try to like this sweater. In part because it tries so hard. It has these angular patches and a deep V-neck and some oddly canted sleeves that aim to please. But the real reason you want to care for this sweater is that the first time you met, you were so charmed by its subtle coloring and odd arms you befriended it, eagerly. At a price you have since tried, endlessly, to forget.
You take it out now and then, usually to the movies. A decision you always regret. You are, frankly, embarrassed by your sweater. It never tries to fit in with your other companions. It’s not really a go-with-the-flow type. It always gets into some conflict with the jeans. It’s pushy in front, withholding in back. It probably considers its own asymmetry charmingly eccentric. As opposed to self-absorbed. Deep down, this sweater is clingy.
You let it hang around. And yet, every time it suggests lunch, you say you’ll get back to it. Soon.
One evening, you and your sweater attend an art opening. You figure it’s the sort of offbeat gathering your sweater will enjoy. A friend admires it. She’s young. An exchange student from a country where oversized asymmetry is admired. You briefly wonder if you might foist your sweater on her. But then, she wears a size zero.
One night, in a fit of reckless craftiness, you take to shrinking thrift-shop woolens into felt. The rib knits are resistant, but plain stockinette works nicely. Standing in the closet, you notice the expensive, showy sweater waving from a high shelf. You barely hesitate.
Willfully ignoring its Dry Clean Only pictogram you fling the sweater into the hot wash cycle. It emerges an hour later matted into a thick blanket of sturdy felt. Size less than zero. You cut along the crisscrossed seams and stitch the pieces into a hat. Something decidedly drab. Humble. Willing to listen. Which is always a good quality in a friend.
