I'll fall asleep counting my blessings...

          Over Thanksgiving, one of my visiting friends forgot something warm to sleep in and borrowed a flannel shirt of mine that I keep at my parents' house. I then asked my mother for something warm to sleep in. It is at moments like these when the absurdity of my mother's collections becomes even more evident. If I had asked her for a vintage pillbox hat or a Mexican guayavera shirt, or even a pair of childrens' shoes from the turn of the 19th century, she could have provided me with seven options each. But the woman could not find me a single garment resembling a sweatshirt. No flannel pajama tops or long sleeved house shirts could be found either. Every sweater she offered me had a zipper or 15 buttons, or was a turtleneck. We found a long sleeved t-shirt that was really too nice for sleep but oh well. I did not need to ask her why she doesn't own any normal bedclothes. I have told her for years that if she is cold at night she should probably skip the electric blanket and wear something other than a nightgown. 

          Had I probed some more, she might have responded facetiously with something to the effect of "Sweatshirts are so plebian". Also, if she buys no clothes designated expressly for lounging, she gets to justify the keeping of everything in her closet when she has her routine purges: "Couldn't I just keep this for 'around the house'?" she will say. It could also just be a generational thing. Her contemporaries may wear things like sweatshirts, but she has an old soul and has always been more enamored with her mother's fashion era than with her own. My mother is not a particularly formal or uptight person in conversation, but perhaps it is this idealization of the past that has made her consistently err on the side of dressing formally to the alternative. This also transferred to her children of course. There was the time she dressed me in an ivory satin gown that I had worn as a flower girl to go to a rehearsal dinner. It was a little outlandish, but at a North Carolina barbecue, it was downright ridiculous. I remember at age eight, being very annoyed that I could not properly show off my cartwheels.

          This all reminded me of when I was in Rome for the semester and my friend Avi came to visit from Spain. Knowing that I had to pack light for the four months I was there, and knowing that Europeans are not exactly enamored with the look of the hoodie, I only packed one item of the ilk. Of course I knew full well that this "biondina" would never be mistaken for an actual Italian but I still harbor a desire to avoid giving them fodder to make fun of my American slovenliness. So I avoided sweatshirts and sneakers, and packed one hooded sweater that I wore in the apartment. While Avi was there for the long weekend, she was looking through my clothes for something warm to wear in the house, as one does with old friends. Avi is a connoisseur of all things cozy and comfortable. She came to me saying; "I can't find your sweatshirts".

"I didn't bring any".

"But where are your sweatshirts?" she said, unable to fathom a home without hoodies.

"Avi, I didn't bring any. I only brought this hooded sweater."

"Katie, where are your sweatshirts???"

Clearly the apple does not fall far from the tree.

          Come to think of it, my mother did have a sweatshirt once. I think it was a gift from her friend in Green Bay. It was made circa 1991 and says "Wisconsin" on it. It features cows wearing pink and blue ankle warmers and on the back it says "udder cold". I know this because I have stolen it permanently and wear it frequently in the winter. It is the perfect combination of worn thin warmth and has no hood to interfere with sleeping or lounging. Brendan looked at it this fall and said "Oh boy... it's that time of year again!" I have asked my mother for a new sweatshirt for Christmas.