You say "cashmere," I say "snob."
You say "cashmere cardigan," I say "Insufferable. Asshole."
Then I got one -- a cashmere cardigan button-up with mother of pearl buttons -- at the consignment shop I frequent (because I am always on the hunt like a fox for jeans) for the rock-bottom price of $3.00 ("never pay retail" is my nom de guerre) and
oh.my.gush. It was my time. It was my moment.
Dear patient reader, the words soft and warm have never been applicable to me emotionally, bodily, or philosophically. But they are now. Wearing something warm and soft so close to the skin has affected me.
Instead of, "Did you do your math homework and return the Lego you stole from your friend Roman?" I said to my son, "Come here, lambchop, let Mama love you."
It's a nice change; I just can't take the thing off.
If I take off the cashmere cardigan I'll snap back into angular shape, don one of the many Puritan linen overshirts that were my stock in trade and that chafe the cheeks; the fabric itself a reprimand. Now that I've had cashmere kiss my collarbone, I don't want that anymore.
I want to louchely lounge on the couch eating ganache, I want to say things like "Whatever," and "Que sera sera," and mean it.