Not every article of clothing I own has a story.

They weren’t all purchased while slightly tipsy on girls’ weekends, or worn on special second dates, or picked up on a first anniversary trip to London. I didn’t get them all from a friend or from my sister, or wear them when I was pregnant or when I had perky boobs.

Sometimes they’re just worn out, yellow, scallopy-edge sweaters that I simply don’t wear (but maybe, just maybe, once fastened in the front with a giant, sparkly brooch is brooch even a word anymore?).

I don’t really have much else to say about this sweater, but brooch reminded me of pocketbook, which reminded me of pantyhosewhich reminded me of dungarees*, which reminded me of slacks, all of which are words that I have used in my lifetime, which reminded me that I’m old.

But I’ll never be too old to do this!


*my dad called them dungarees until the day he died, which reminded me how much I miss my dad. Please hug your dad if you can and enjoy these photos (and do note that the first time my daughters saw old pictures of me, they said “We didn’t know you used to dye your hair brown!” Yes, kids. Yes I did.)

Dad the badass.

Back when I used to dye my hair brown.