# 24 – I wear the ugliest sweater known to man when I write.
When I saw Wonder Boys for the first time and got to the part where Michael Douglas wears that raggedy pink chenille robe while he’s writing, I almost died, because I do something very similar.
I bought the ugliest sweater known to man used from a thrift shop that sold clothes by the pound when I was in college. It was my “smoking sweater.” I bought it the sweater because I didn’t want to get my winter coat all stinky when Lady and I smoked Swisher Sweets on the dorm balcony. We took turns spitting over the railing, and thought being cigar smoking, lugie hocking girls made us so bad-assed.
I haven’t smoked a crappy cigar, or any cigar for that matter, in years and years and years and years. But the sweater gets lots of use. As soon as it gets cold around here, I throw my writing sweater on when I work.
It’s ESPRIT, probably circa 1988, made from acrylic yarn, about 5 sizes too big, and scratchy as all hell, but it’s really really warm. I guess it’s my security blanket or something. I’ve actually never really thought much about why I’m so attracted to my writing sweater. Maybe it reminds me of good times with Lady. Maybe it feels like my lifeline back to me when I’m spending time hanging out in someone else’s head. Maybe it’s a statement to myself that it doesn’t matter what I look like while I’m writing. Or maybe, I like it just because I like it.
On Tuesday, when my husband came home from work, I was wearing the sweater, which falls halfway to my knees, a pair of black and white running shorts, and big fluffy pink socks with black flip-flops. “Oh sweetie,” J said laughing, “Nice outfit.”
But damn, if I didn’t get some awesome work done on my April book on Tuesday. There’s magic in that sweater, I tell you.
#25 – I clean up real nice, I swear.