Look at this sweater.
Look at it. It has a skier on it. I hate skiing. It’s XXL. I am not. It’s so big that with a twitch I can slip both arms inside it and walk around like I’ve got no arms. I could sit on the curb and ask for money and people would give it to me because my arms are gone. I can draw both legs to my chest and trick people into thinking I have bone boobs or maybe tumors. You’d admire my spirit for walking around with breast tumors that big.
There are so many ways I can bamboozle you with this sweater.
Deep down, I know I have no business buying enormous $4 sweaters from Goodwill and wearing them as dresses. I know that I am not the Queen of the Sweaters and that the green skier will not convince local townspeople that I don’t cry when I ski. I know that there are knuckle sized holes all over it and that if I raise my hand to answer a question (?) strangers will see my bra. I don’t care. I’m going to learn how to darn.
I love you, ski sweater.
(It wasn’t until I tried to take these pictures that I realized I’d left the house twice with a rotting skanknest for hair.)
