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![]() Fuzzy loving Sing the sweater song
I'm always cold. Fall winter spring summer. Given my peculiar
relationship with layers, people buy me sweaters all the time, like for
my birthday. In June.
I have a special relationship with each of my sweaters. But my new
Christmas cardigan isn't getting along with the others in my collection.
It's quiet yet hideous, a disgusting green that vaguely resembles puke.
My blue-and gray-striped Croft and Barrow won't accept it into the
clique in my bottom two drawers.
The red and green Freddy Krueger wool--stagnant since October--is
itching to see daylight. It's more like Halloween attire. It won't like
January, I can tell.
I have a dark gray V-neck that I bought about seven years ago at a
thrift store. It was free with the purchase of another sweater. I forget
what the other one looked like-- it's long gone--but my gray beauty has
white spots laced across the front, like diamonds. Now that I think
about it, it might be a woman's sweater. No wonder high school sucked.
My blue and gray stripe is the leader, the Patton. Krueger is up
there, but he's dangerously close to retirement. My diamond-laced
hate-target is the grandfather. I also have two navy blues, another dark
gray, a black that I never liked but keep around for emergencies, and a
brown cardigan. My Christmas vomit card and my brown cotton are the new
kids on the block. A hazing period is in progress. They will be worn in
the most extreme situations, like visits to bars and tackle football
games. If they live, they're in.
Also by Tom Lynch Tip of the Week
On Board
The Weather overground
The cock crows
Windows for the world
Tip of the Week
From Russia, With Love
Tip of the Week
Debbie does Dogme
Tip of the Week
Still biting
Ollie oop
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