I have this weird thing* about top-length. (*I just started typing that and realized you could end that sentence approximately thirteen billion different ways: *drinking coffee through a straw, * walking on only the left side of people, *little spoons, *never going barefoot, even to the bathroom in the middle of the night, *the precise, perfect way towels should be folded, *teeth touching forks… the list goes on and on and on.)  There’s basically a two-inch window I deem perfect; anything else is clearly and unacceptably too long or too short.

It. Just. Is. 

I love this little sweater. I love the colors and I love a v-neck and I love that it’s sheer because layering over strappy camisoles is my favorite. (Well, right after sequins.) When I first pulled it out, I actually got excited. “I remember this sweater,” I thought. “I love this sweater!” I eyeballed it for moth holes, snags, stains or any other reasons I hadn’t been wearing it and couldn’t see any. It does look a little short,  I mused, but I pulled it on and lo-and-behold it was fine. Oh maybe it was creeping toward the top of the two-inch window, but I gave it a good, firm tug and it was definitely within the safe zone. For some reason, I snapped a photo anyway.


Just then, my husband came into the room.

“That’s cute,” he said, echoing my own thoughts.

“I know,” I agreed. “I think I’m keeping it.” I trotted off to my she shed in it, proud of myself for unearthing this great find.

Then I came up for lunch.

As I passed the giant floor mirror in the hallway, I absentmindedly checked myself out and gasped. It was awful. One side was hanging limply off my shoulder. The V-neck was completely kittywampus. And without tugging at the hem, the whole thing had shrunk up to George Costanza-after-the-pool levels. If I had been braless (which no), there might have been an underboob situation going on.

I ripped it off and threw it on the pile, consoling myself with the fact that at least I had only bought this one once.