Collecting Sweatshirts

I cleaned out my closet recently in preparation for my move to Florida. I knew it was time to get rid of some things when I realized I couldn’t see the Bon Jovi poster hanging on the wall. I started with my stack of sweatshirts that I no longer wear, since living in Florida means I won't need so many.

There was the U.S. Open sweatshirt from way back in 2004, the year Svetlana Kuznetsova beat Elena Dementieva for the women’s title and Roger Federer began his domination of the hard courts in Flushing Meadows. I put it in the pile to give away but then pulled it out. That trip was just too good a time to part with the only memento I possess.

I have a green sweatshirt from New York University. My daughter, Morgan, brought it back for me when she made her campus visit. My girl left for college last week, and given how proud I am of her, I will never be able to part with that NYU shirt.

The same goes for my grey University of Hawaii sweatshirt. Several years ago, my family hosted an exchange student from Lithuania. Petras now plays basketball for the University of Hawaii, and last December, my mother and I spent a week together on Waikiki Beach. We enjoyed great books and pina coladas during the day and cheered for Hawaii in the evenings. Unfortunately, Hawaii lost the Rainbow Classic tournament despite all the spirit I showed by purchasing a University of Hawaii shirt. But the shirt reminds me of a well-spent week with my mom, and it also speaks to how someone from the other side of the world can so quickly become a permanent family member. I’ll have it until the sleeves fall off it.

I also have a grey Oxford University shirt, one I obtained by accident. I took my three teenagers to England two summers ago, and we boarded a bus early one morning for a trip to Oxford, Windsor Castle, and Shakespeare’s home. To my complete consternation, we were hurried through our tour of the Oxford. I actually had to beg our tour guide to give me ten minutes to buy my kids each an Oxford University shirt. Somehow, I also ended up with the sweatshirt the guy in line in front of me paid for. I didn’t notice until our tour bus broke down an hour later and we were stranded on the side of the road in the chilly rain somewhere between Oxford and Stratford-on-Avon, Shakespeare's birthplace. I opened the bag to hand my kids their sweatshirts and found the extra one, which I gratefully pulled over my tank top. A serendipitous sweatshirt that was free – life doesn’t provide many of those, so it’s surely a keeper.

By now, you might be wondering if I found one with which I could actually part.

I pulled out of the pile a navy blue sweatshirt with a banana on the front. Circling the banana are the words, “This sh*t is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S,” two lines from a Gwen Stefani song that was popular about four years ago. I bought it at her concert in November 2005, the same week I filed for divorce. It became my divorce uniform, my protest against the whole situation. I even wore it to my attorney’s office on the day I signed the settlement agreement that ended my 19-year marriage.

That’s the one I put in the give-away pile. Sometimes you just know when it’s time to let something go.