So my grandma sent me a lovely sweater and a generous cheque for my birthday. It got here on the first of the month; I cashed the cheque immediately, which is evil, but I needed money.
I finally bestirred myself to write the thank you note. It’s only five days after my birthday. I’m writing along, Thank you for the –
oh shit.
Did she send me a sweater or a shirt?
I break into a cold sweat. I rummage through my clothes piles to find the thing. My only clue is that I remember that the label said it was made in a country I haven’t seen before in a clothes label.
I can’t find it. But the note is late.
I cross my fingers and plunge ahead. I write sweater, since I seem to remember putting it on when I got it because it was a cold day. And I think it was a shirt last year.
Desperately hoping it’s a sweater. I send out the note and continue to sweat. If she sent a shirt and I wrote sweater, I’m going to offend my dear, sweet, eighty-year-old grandma. My mom will hear about and I’ll be in the doghouse for, like, life.
Today I’m doing my laundry and I come across a new sweater. The label says Hecho en Jordania. whoof Saved.
I am an ungrateful wretch of a grandson who can’t even remember what his grandma sent him two weeks ago. Let the flagellations commence.
And the irony is that I actually do appreciate the clothes she sends me. Most of my best shirts and sweaters are from her, including two kick-ass swanky black collared shirts that look good with everything.
