This is the unofficial, pre-announcement announcing of my early retirement. For several years now, I’ve hunted for the ultimate knit sweaters. With each new discovery from any of the big name thrift stores, my standards increased.
Pennsylvania’s Woolrich, New York’s Rag and Bone, Naples’ Isaia — they were all nice. I’d wear them hard, wear them out, then move onto something either more exotic or elegant. My purchases became far more particular as I discovered $1,000 sweaters for $16.99.
But I will toil in the soil no longer. Today I wear a 40 per cent Mohair, 40 per cent merino wool, 20 per cent acrylic masterpiece of Scottish knitted pride. It drapes over my torso rather than looming outward. The shawl collar is full-sized, not flimsy, hanging helplessly from an improperly shaped neck. I imagine the creator had a name for each individual stitch, and knew each intimately.
I’ve outdone all other sweaters, I’m ready to retire. It’ll be far more productive for me to sit in an easy chair during the day, lounging after early morning strolls, smoking a briar pipe. This is my resignation from the pains of labour.
