> CD #6: The incredible shrinking sweater
Or is it that I'm finally growing?
Way back in the early days of lockdown, I bought a sweater online, partly out of boredom and partly driven by nostalgia. It was a new version of a sweater I used to own before our house burned down (more on that one day, maybe), only in a different type of yarn. The original was a cotton-cashmere blend while the new one is 80% wool—something I probably should’ve noted before buying.
For months now, the sweater has been shrinking. Every time I put it through the laundry, it gets a tiny bit smaller and while I’ve tried to ignore what’s happening, I’m starting to think that my laundry sins will catch up to me one day. Last week, I had to stretch the sweater out for several minutes in order to squeeze my arms into its now 3/4-length sleeves.
Just to be clear, I wash with cold water only and hang the stupid thing to dry. I’m not a monster. Still, I am effectively wet-felting the wool into a dense, soon-to-be impenetrable garment that will either end up fitting my children or their stuffed animals.
And yet I refuse to hand wash (and continue brazenly putting all sorts of clothes labeled “hand wash only” into the washing machine). Here’s why: from ages 12 to 25, I shared most of my clothes with my mother, who has a Chinese immigrant’s deep distrust of household appliances, and she made me wash all my (our) clothes by hand. Her rationale was that laundry machines were too hard on fabric, and we had to make sure our garments lasted. So, every evening, after taking a bath in a big Rubbermaid washtub (my mom thought the big bathtub was a waste of water), I’d wash the clothes I’d worn that day in the same tub and then hang them to dry on the shower curtain rod.
I also had the job of taking the things we could machine wash (sheets, towels, jeans, my brother’s clothes) down to the basement to hang on clotheslines. Reader, I was 26 years old and newly married before I discovered the soft warmth of a load of laundry fresh out of the dryer. To this day, it feels like a miracle. Please, when I die, bury me in warm laundry.
The way I see it, clothes only truly belong in my wardrobe if I can put them through the washer. I am admittedly bad at laundry—my whites get dingy, I’ve washed my earphones twice, and I have no clue what the controls mean ("permanent press?”)—but I have little pity for my victims. We only have room for survivors in this house.
I am still my mother’s daughter, though, which is why I’ll continue wearing the sweater until I physically cannot get into it. It’d be wasteful otherwise. And when I’m done with it, I guess I will pass it down to my daughters.
:) Teresa
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Haha -- love this. "wet-felting the wool" 😆