I am in kind of a whimsical, silly mood so I thought I would post the lyrics to a very special song, “The Sweater” by Meryn Cadell. While I never experienced the exact details spelled out by Meryn, I definitely came close enough. Back in the heady, anxious days of junior high when every week there was new ABSOLUTELY gorgeous boy who pulled my eyes to them every time they were within fifty feet of me. Each one was my new Prince Charming and if he would only notice me, I knew he would sweep me off my feet and we would ride a way together to some perfect world and live happily ever after.
But as the poets say, there is no happily ever after. None of the boys ever noticed me. At least they didn’t notice me enough to sweep me off my feet and carry me away to paradise. I look back on those days and sigh. It was all so glorious – the dreams, the hopes, the angst and even the pain. The innocence coupled with the desire made for wonderfully intense dreams. Looking back, I think that some of those dreams were more satisfying than my actual relationships later in life. I don’t wish to go back to those days which were horrible in their own way, but I do look back on them and savor the memories.
So in honor of the junior high girl that I once was and that we all once were, here is “The Sweater.”
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The Sweater
Girls, I know you will understand this, and feel the intrinsic, incredible emotion. You have just pulled over your head the worn, warm sweater belonging to A Boy.
Now you haven’t had a passionate kissing session or anything, but you got to go on a camping trip with him and eight other people from school, and you practically slept together, your sleeping bag right next to his, and you woke in the night to watch him as he slept, but you couldn’t see anything ’cause it was dark, so you just lay there and listened to his breathing, and wondered if your heart might burst.
The sweater has that slightly goat-like smell which all teenage boys possess, and that smell will lovingly transfer to all your other clothes. If you get to keep it for a few days, you can sleep with it, but don’t let your mom see because she’ll say, ‘What is that filthy thing, and who does it belong to besides the trashman?’ …. So you have to keep it under the covers, with you. You can kind of lie it beside you, or wrap it around your waist, or touch it on your legs or whatever, but that’s your business.
Now if the sweater has, like, reindeer on it, or is a funny color like yellow – I’m sorry you can’t get away with a sweater like that. Look for brown or grey or blue. Anything other than that and you know you’re dealing with someone who’s different. And different is not what you’re looking for.
You’re looking for those teenage, alpine ski, chiseled features, and that sort of blank look which passes for deep thought or at least the notion that someone’s home. You’re looking for the boy of your dreams who is the same boy in the dreams of all of your friends.
Now the sweater isn’t going fit you of course, so you have to kind roll up the sleeves in a jaunty way that says, ‘This is the sweater belonging to a boy, and the boy is a genuine hunka hunka burning love’, and this is not just some hand-me-down from your brother or your father.
Monday, wear the sweater to school. Be calm, look cute. Don’t tell him the dream you had about the place the two of you would share when you get older, just be yourself. The best, cutest, quietest version of yourself.
Definitely wear lip gloss.
He looks at you, and he looks away, and then he walks away, and the smell of the sweater hits you again suddenly like ape-scent gloriola. And you get a note passed to you by a girl in history that says he needs his sweater back, he forgot that you put it on in the tent on Saturday and he’s been looking for it.
And you don’t have to die of humiliation, you know. You are a strong person and this is a learning experience. You can still hold your head up high as you run from the classroom, tearing the stinking sweater from your body.
You look at that sweater, carefully, and realize that love made you temporarily blind. You’ve got a secret now, honey, and though you would never sink as low as him, you could blab it all over the school if you wanted:
The label in that sweater said 100% acrylic.
Wands, Cups, Swords and Pentacles 