I haven't taken it off since.
|You know, this one.|
I've never owned any wool because I've never needed any wool. When Mistah and I drove around in our Westy for seven years, I'd sit in a sundress with the window open, talking or doing a crossword puzzle or talking, and he'd be in jeans and a sweatshirt with his window shut tight, interrupting me, begging me, "Ellie, please roll up your window; I'm freezing."
But funny things happen when you get older.
Well, funny things happen to me as I get older. As I get older, I get colder.
Until Mistah gave me one of his sweaters.
|Really. I have been wearing it all Winter. And all last Fall. |
And oh yeah, all this Spring.
The Wool Sweater was in Mistah's bag in the closet with his other inherited sweaters, and his bag also housed a couple bars of Dial soup that my mom had given him; they were still around because Dad was a Dial devotee. And a BJ's shopping warehouse devotee: there was a lot of Dial soap around.
Mistah kept the bars of Dial right in his bag to keep everything smelling fresh, so when I inherited that sweater I could smell nothing but Dial soap for days and days. (And, frankly, I probably smelled of nothing but Dial soap for days and days.)
Plus I couldn't stop sneezing.
But the thing about wool?
The best thing about wool?
When you're wearing wool, you can be outside in Connecticut, in Spring. And this year? In this mad, climate-changed, universe-wacked, topsy-turvy year? That's the only way one can *be* outside in Connecticut in Spring.