It’s a nubby, grey sweater.
And it’s warm and cuddly and sexy, because sweaters, to me, are always sexy…but that’s just me…or probably not. But I live in Florida now and the idea of a sweater is simply wrong, so, when the opportunity arises, and it has, and you grew up on the Eastern Seaboard, and I did, the idea of a sweater is a wonderful thing. It’s 45 degrees. I’m sitting on a balcony at midnight on a Thursday, looking out at a silent bay, writing a blog, sipping a glass of wine, and wearing my favorite sweater. Perfect.
My sister and I used to call it Sweater Weather – usually fall-winter-late winter – when the temperature is just right, and everyone looks their best because they’re a little flushed from the cold temperatures or internally warm thoughts, and they’re wearing sweaters that hug the right curves and disguise the other ones. Cuddly is implied, if not said outright. A warm beverage is waiting, stage right.
Having a memory. Having a moment.
And moments matter to me. I’m prone to romance and exaggeration, as I’ve often been told, but the idea of romance-and-exaggeration-and-moments is never a bad thing…to me. I have a vision in my head of a younger self – a junior high school self, sitting on a Jersey shore beach in the fall…in a sweater…with a warm beverage…alone. Utterly alone. And surprisingly not sad. Because I seemed to realize, then and there, that for most of our lives, most of everyone’s life, we are alone. And then I thought, here I sit, and it’s beautiful, and I can hear the waves, and they’re beautiful, and I see the cashmere greys on greys of the sky meeting the water, and it’s beautiful, and I could die, right here and now, or fly, right here and now, or sing, or laugh or anything at all, right here and now, and it’s all up to me. And isn’t that life? Without the distractions. Without the excuses. Without the noise.
There’s a combination of just-enough cold air – clean, crisp, envigorting – and warm thoughts – romantic, sensual, bittersweet – the combination we have tonight, that renders me emotionally naked. A curious and remarkable place to be. It’s freeing and pure and makes the corners of your mouth curl into a smile without your knowing it.
So, here I sit, on the ninth floor balcony, overlooking the bay, remembering a 15-year old boy who was so much older than I am now, or was trying desperately to be, and I’m warm and cuddly and feeling comfortable, feeling sexy, feeling content, in my favorite sweater. Perfect.
To escape and sit quietly on the beach – that’s my idea of paradise.
– Emilia Wickstead
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