It’s cold right now in Florida. Now, I know — I went to school in Syracuse and grew up in New England — you’re colder than I am, most likely. But I’ve lived in the Sunshine State since 2004. I have Florida blood. I shiver at the thought of temperatures that are below 50.
But I will admit to one great thing about the cold weather. I get to put on my favorite sweatshirt.
It’s nothing fancy. But it’s very special.
I can’t remember when my dad bought it for me, but I do remember shopping for it outside of Quincy Market. To be clear, there was never any danger of me actually becoming a student at Harvard, but because I grew up in Boston, I always thought of that as my school.
When I got it, it had a good and drawstrings, and those stuck around for the first few years. (It was also about three sizes too big for me at first.)
After a while, I cut the hood off…the bottom started to fray…I burned holes in the sleeves…
…and it started to pick up a smell. Not a gross one (Lucas might disagree) but sort of a collection of all of the places it had been.
No matter how many times I wash it, that smell hangs on. Depending on where I stick my nose in, I smell the faint mustiness of our old basement, where I’d hang out with my dad at his workbench. I smell smoke from high school cookouts and marshmallow roasts. I smell beer that got spilled during some college get-togethers in our freezing dorm room. I smell adventure, and journeys and they all remind me of how far I’ve come.
I know it’s probably nerdy to have such a sentimental attachment to a sweatshirt, but before I put it on (usually only one or two times a year now), I bury my face in it and bask in those old feelings.
Do you have an attachment to a piece of clothing? What does it mean to you?