The Ballad of the Gray Sweater
I had this sweater. I loved it. It was v-necked and it clung in the right places and had three-quarter sleeves and a little sweater belt. Soft gray. HAD. I HAD this sweater. Until last Saturday, when it died a very ugly death at The Vine in Iowa City, Iowa ... while I was wearing it.
The Vine is known for its wings. There were fourteen of us, my three college roommates, some of our husbands, all of our progeny. We waited an hour for our food. The children got squirmy. Things were spilled. I was sitting in a booth with my friend Kristin on one side and her daughter on the other side. We barely had room for our elbows, but when the food came we practically shoved our faces in the baskets to get it in our bellies faster.
In the aftermath, baskets and plates covered the table completely -- there were six of us shoved into this little tiny booth in the corner. In an attempt to keep the food away from my pretty sweater, my favorite sweater, I picked up a plate and a basket containing the remains of my SUPERHOT wings, caught an edge, and watched in horror as the basket flew through the air and landed squarely on my right shoulder.
I was covered in SUPERHOT sauce. The grease and bright-red-and-pepper sauce literally dripped from my pretty gray sweater and one of the pairs of jeans that I had to try on 45 pairs to find.
I know, the injustice!
Everyone at the table looked at me in shock, then rightly erupted in laughter. I wanted to laugh, but at that moment, I just sat there and felt the dripping and let my mind go 100% blank into my safe place in which I wasn't sitting in a crowded college town restaurant with seven children and six adults looking like Dexter's latest victim and smelling like chili powder.
After sort of dabbing at it with a napkin, I realized I was going to have to go to the bathroom to at least get it to stop dripping before I got into a car like that. I don't know if anyone looked at me, because I just stared straight ahead. When I got to the bathroom, I realized just how bad the damage was, so I did what felt right -- I braved walking through the restaurant again, got my coat, went back to the bathroom and replaced the stinking, hot-sauce-coated sweater with my winter coat.
We tried. We really did. In the end, the barbecue sauce won. RIP pretty gray sweater. (sob!)
In other news, yesterday I made a guide for not freaking out in severe weather. (I know.) You should go read it.