I see you hanging there in my closet with promises of warmth and luxury. You spout tales of fashion and coziness but you sir, are a liar. You lured me in with your rock bottom price. Who could pass up a legit Angora sweater in a perfect shade of plum for only $9.99? I know that I couldn’t. Into my basket you went and I eagerly awaited the day when I could pull you up over my head and bask in the splendor of your woven goodness.
Before long I remembered, wool it itchy. I can get over that. Many a strong woman has suffered blisters and itchiness in the name of looking fabulous. But then the reality of what I had done hit me like a banana launched from the hand of a toddler with sniper-like aim. You are dry-clean only.
I was so won over by your delicious fibers and perfect color that I neglected the harsh truth that I am a throw-it-in-the-washer kinda gal. I’ve got 4 kids. If I remember to treat that stain before tossing it in with a mix of lights, darks, and whites, I give myself a pat on the back. Make a special trip out to a store, strapping 4 reluctant children into a minivan, for you? I’m sorry but the boundaries of my love have a limit and you have reached it.
Moreover, I agreed to a $10 pricetag. If I am expected to increase the cost of you with multiple trips to the dry cleaners every season, you have become too high maintenance. So move over, you once beautiful plush plum-tastic sweater; there’s a new sweater in town, and his name is cotton. Practical. Honest. Reliable. And most importantly, machine washable.
I know my limits and I vow to remember to read the tags on each piece of clothing from now on… until I inevitable get caught up in the giddy “this is such an awesome deal” whirlwind again. I’m human just like you.
Unlike this little guy who lovingly donated his plush fluffiness to aid in my wardrobe fail.
No Bunnies were harmed in the making of my sweater. Only sheared.