This morning, desperate NOT to wear my Oxford sweatshirt to school for yet another day, I sought in my closet my fairly-new angora sweater.
It is fairly new, and rarely worn.
The first time I tried wearing it was a sort of Pigpen experience, only with a cloud of rabbit hair instead of dirt. I guess most of the hairs that wanted to fly off did that first day, as the sweater hasn't had quite the same problem since.
It's also a kind of too-big sweater, which I suppose isn't the most flattering thing around. But by the time I realized the extent of its too-bigness, a bunch of the hairs and the tags had already come off, so it was too late to do anything about it.
All that to say that when I did find it and put it on again, I was pleasantly surprised by its being all-around better than I had remembered. And I was happy.
Until about twenty minutes ago, when No. 2 and a Concordian classmate entered the house.
"Where did you get THAT?" asked No. 2.
"My sweater? It's a nice sweater!" I offered gently, and with great humility of spirit.
No. 2 only snickered.
I looked forlornly down to the ground, but on the way down the front cover of the magazine I was holding caught my eye.
"It looks like Karl Barth's!"
"Well, if that's what you're going for, congratulations," retorted the Concordian classmate.
At this moment I had one of those kinds of epiphanies of self-revelation that some people pay psychiatrists to discover:
It is what I was hoping for.
While other kids were singing "Won't You Be My Neighbor," I was learning how to spell c-a-r-d-i-g-a-n for my Christmas wish list.
When, watching "My Fair Lady," the other little girls wanted a princess dress like Eliza Dolittle, I dreamed of having a sweater like Henry Higgins (oh for one with pockets!).
When other junior highers were discovering boys and lipstick, I was teaching piano lessons and saving up to buy a long black Lands' End cardigan (with patch pockets!) marketed to the over-40 crowd (true story; I still have the cardigan).
Two of my favorite words in the clothing world are "pleats" and "tweed."
And now I know, thanks to the intervention of my sister and co., that somewhere deep down in my subconscious, I want to dress like Karl Barth.