That Gray Sweater by Kathy Kassab
That Gray Sweater by Kathy Kassab
That gray sweater was keeping me stuck in a story that had ended — so I spring cleaned it right out of my life .
I ’ m finally admitting to myself that I ’ m not poor any more and I don ’ t have to live like I am . Or will be again . That if I throw something out , I can afford to replace it . That I won ’ t end up living in a box if I spend more than $ 10 on a pair of jeans , or $ 5 on a sweater .
You see , I ’ m the thrift shop queen . Part of it is the thrill of the chase — anything could be on those racks . Cashmere sweater from Saks Fifth Avenue . Tomatsu blazer . Ralph Lauren Jeans . Lilly Pulitzer skirt . Ferragamo pumps . Coach purse .
I ’ ve searched the racks from Goodwill to the more upscale , designer-only shops . I started when I was in college . It was a fun hobby , a way to pick up a 60s black silk cocktail dress and satin dress pumps for a networking event . Later , it was a necessity . For years , it was the only way I could buy clothes . It was thrift or go naked , which is frowned upon in the Midwest .
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Yes , I was too broke even for Wal- Mart .
And by Aphrodite , if I were going to have to buy it cheap , I was going to buy the best cheap clothes I could find . It was upscale resale or nothing .
The gray Eileen Fisher sweater was like a talisman for me . That sweater was with me through three presidential elections , five crazy roommates , two leaky apartments , two long-term , commitment-phobic boyfriends and at last , a Prince Charming of a husband .
Keeping the sweater , along with the other designer pieces I picked up , was an act of sympathetic magic and stubborn , fierce faith . It said that even though I might be living in one room of a house in a threadbare neighborhood , I was meant for better things . I was a queen in exile . And someday , I ’ d throw down that broom I used to clean other people ’ s houses and pick up a crown .
Oh , it took years for the magic to work . I might be the only one at the retreat center in a pink
Scottish cashmere sweater , but I was still there on scholarship . I still had to spend one weekend below stairs in the kitchen for every weekend I spent upstairs learning to be brave enough to face the challengers at my crossroads . Years to unwind the damage I ’ d done by choosing the adventure that seemed safe , but which almost destroyed me because it wasn ’ t written big enough for the woman I needed to be .
Through it all , I loved that gray sweater , soft and comforting as a sweatshirt , pedigreed as a Duchess . But at last , I had to admit its time had come .
I ’ d already patched up a few small holes near the bottom , and never gotten around to one on the sleeve . Which I thought gave it a certain charm . Or , as the sleeves were always bunched or rolled up , didn ’ t show .
It was the hole smack in the middle of the cleavage that made me decide its time had come . I tossed it into the bag with some other hard core holdovers . Some were things I bought for the label , but