This corduroy-and-sweater revolution will not be televised.

The Story of the Green Sweater

The annual Clothing Culling took place this week and I got rid of a number of sentimental pieces that I know I'll never wear but still had a hard time parting with. I was pleased to note that I had clothing ranging from size 14 to 24. A sign of optimism, I got rid of everything over a size 16. It's good to limit yourself on how large you will allow your ass to be.

Toward the back of the closet I found the Green Sweater. 3/4-length sleeves, bright green and cream striped, abalone buttons, peter pan collar. I loved that sweater once. I wore it on Easter and it was there when Mom made the peanut butter chocolate chick cake. I wore it for good luck on my first day of work at the prison. It looked good with jeans and with my Rocky Horror pearls.

The most memorable day that the Green Sweater had, though, was that day when we went to Bloomington and I got drunk at lunch and he insisted that I come into the cookware store even though the glare of all that gleaming stainless steel and copper cookery left me dumb while he contemplated espresso makers and martini sets. I never saw him drink a real martini. He was enthusiastic about glassware and exotic black and homemade pepper vodkas but what I think he really loved about martinis was their perfect chemistry.

I did see him drink a gibson once. I guess that counts.