A couple of weeks ago I bought a quirky sweater in a cramped booth at the Fredericksburg Trade Days, which is a massive flea market offering everything from rusted yard art to antiques, and cow hides to caramelized pecans. I enjoy eccentric clothing and the sweater had qualities that appealed. It’s baggy with bat sleeves and, while the current style is to have sweaters and other sorts of tops longer in the back (big butt coverage), this sweater hangs long in the front and rides up in the back—a contrary article of clothing indeed. Also, the sweater is mixed media—in the front are inserts of colorful netting, and the fabric is composed of two different entities, mohair and soft wool, which combine to offer an interesting texture while at the same time making it cuddly.
The woman who sold it to me told me I had a good eye for the unusual. Her flattery didn’t impress me. I’ve dealt with the Romani before and I know one when I see one. She did, however, say something that grabbed my attention: “This is a truly unique sweater, one of a kind, and it’s the last one I have in stock.” Seriously, who could walk away after that?
New subject: I’ve belonged to many organizations and clubs over the years—charities, American ex-pat societies, special interest groups, the PTO. And one thing all these assemblages have in common is that they all have meetings; and during these meetings the powers in charge would like for attendees to pin or stick a name tag on to their front upper quadrant, which is understandable because name tags are a helpful tool when trying to navigate a populated meeting.
This is the time of year when different organizations pull their people in to celebrate the holidays and their end-of-year successes. Last night we attended the annual Master Gardeners’ meeting, which is one of the many organizations David belongs to—and congratulations to him for being recognized for over a thousand hours of volunteer service at the community garden this year. We’ve been going to this event for five years, so I wasn’t walking into a room full of strangers. But there are always new people or returning people, so it makes sense that name tags were waiting at the sign-in table.
However, just because I see a use for them doesn’t mean I like them. I’ve had delicate clothing pierced and ripped by name tags that pin on. And I’ve ended up with permanent rectangular discolorations on beloved silk from the stick-on tags.
So, fearing that my sweater might suffer, I tried to sneak past the name tags; but the sweet-faced woman behind the table, wanting to do her job well, and wanting me to do things the right way, was smilingly and firmly insistent. Gazing around the room, I saw that every person who had entered before me was wearing a name tag. Not wanting to seem like an anti-social non-conformist bitch, I scribbled my name, pulled the tag from its backing, and pressed it above my left breast.
There have been times when I was one of the powers. I remember one group where, because of my resolute disdain for pinned or stick-on nametags, we went to a great deal of trouble punching holes in cards and knotting yarn through the holes, so that people could hang the tags around their necks. And the women in their silks and finely woven knits were appreciative of the effort.
In the car on the way home, I tried to peel the name tag away from my sweater. It wouldn’t come off. All the fine mohair fibers were stuck, and pulling caused breakage and stretching. I’m going to take it to professionals later today to see if they can get it off without ripping the fragile threads.
Why did I wear the sweater in the first place? To be honest, I gave it very little thought. I don’t think about what damage my clothing might incur before going out. It was appropriate for the occasion, and it looked good with my slim black pants and high-heeled boots. Still, I’m disappointed by this outcome. Also, a name tag is optional and pressing someone to wear one is just wrong.
On the upside, one of the toughest things for a fiction writer to do is to come up with realistic names that suit the character and the area. So every time I go to an event where people’s names are listed in a program, I save the program and harvest the names. Because of the Master Gardeners’ meeting last night, I now have a new source of Texas names, which is pleasing—though losing a sweater and gaining names doesn’t seem like a fair trade-off.
The sweater.
The damage.
The names.
