Ratty Old Sweaters

I have a ratty old sweater that I heisted from my now ex-husband. It wasn't quite as ratty when I first acquired it. Neither was he, for that matter. In fact, I used a sweater analogy for years to explain why I stayed with him, in a relationship that was decidedly bad by all accounts. As a matter of fact, for many years I was the only person who "knew" why I stayed with him. I described our relationship and him as an old comfy sweater. It was a bit - okay quite ratty and worn out, but I always knew what to expect. Never mind that what I knew to expect was actually quite abusive, both verbally and psychologically.

I started thinking about this today when I picked my sweater up from the cleaners. The sweater is an old v-neck black cashmere sweater. It's stretched out and riddled with holes; some from wear, some from our bunny nibbling away when he sits on my lap. I don't wear it anywhere except here at home - in fact I wear it in place of a robe on a chilly evening lounging about in my jammies, which are sweatpants. It seems I've become the epitome of "not sexy", but at least I'm comfortable. And life is quiet and I don't get yelled at anymore.

The last couple of times when I've taken the sweater in to the cleaners, the owner's wife, an old Greek woman, has lectured me. "The sweater, it is full of holes! Why you clean it?" Then she would shake her head in a mixture of disbelief and what might have been disgust. So this time when I took it in, I told the owner "I just want it cleaned. I don't want any lectures about it. I know it's ratty and full of holes. I sleep in it. So no lectures this time." He took the sweater and started writing out the ticket. He tossed one arm on the sweater aside and shook his head. "It has a lot of holes," he said. I told him that I knew that and reiterated to him "No lectures this time, I mean it! Your wife always lectures me. Maybe you should write 'no lectures' on the ticket."

Today I picked up the sweater. He turned on the rack to spin the clothes about, asking my last name as he approached the "M's". When I was working, I went there often and he knew me. Now a far less frequent customer, I reminded him "I'm McCoy. It's my ratty old sweater," adding "and no lectures." He smiled wanly and pulled the sweater from the rack. "We did the best we could" he said, as if the sweater was a patient that had died during surgery.

What matters today is that I only have one ratty old sweater in my life. I don't get lectured, yelled at, or threatened by it. I'm moving on.