My Cashmere Dream

I don’t want to give away the punchline of Tracey Solomon’s vulnerable discovery. Read on and see if you can relate?

Elisa

My Cashmere Dream

By Tracey Solomon

Not long after Kyle Solomon, my husband, passed I ordered a pair of cashmere sweats online. I had life insurance money, and I wasn’t afraid to use it.

They were on Oprah’s favorites list, and I became slightly obsessed with them. First, I stalked the site. Then, I read reviews and watched the review videos. I was obsessed with the idea of them. They were shown being worn by a jet setter, branded as comfy and on- trend airport wear. Accessorized with the coolest tennies and a designer bag.

They balanced bougie with down to earth. “Effortless chic.”

I wanted to be a jetsetter. I wanted to be bougie and down to earth. I wanted to be effortlessly chic. I wanted my dream life. Anything but the nightmare of loss I was actually living. Eventually, I hit the “check out” button.

When they arrived, I slipped them on, put my sunglasses on… grabbed my version of a designer bag, and my coolest tennies and felt … something. But not what I expected.

I felt a bit guilty, because who needs $200 cashmere sweats? Back then $200 would have bought a lot of groceries! But I was also a bit excited. “Someday I’ll wear them, somewhere.”

I also felt disappointed. The truth is that I hate dry cleaning and I was afraid they’d get dirty, snagged and ruined. They were expensive. I wanted them to last.

They were a bit too long and I wasn’t sure how to hem them. Instead, I ordered platform tennies. Nothing like making a bad decision worse. The only thing worse than cashmere sweats is cashmere sweats that only fit with platform tennis shoes.

I tried them on again. honestly? Instead of effortlessly chic I just looked effortless. Cashmere or, not, sweats are sweats.

So, instead of returning them like a reasonable human. I hung them carefully in my closet. I decided to save them, for the perfect occasion.

Flights to Florida with my sons came and went. Drives to Traverse City, a flight to California … none were the “right” time.

The sweats started to sag on their padded hanger. I put them in a drawer, petting them like a sleek beloved black cat.

“Someday.”

Someday never came. It’s been years.

Recently, while going through some things to donate or sell, I came across their buttery softness. The weather has turned chilly here in Michigan. When my hands hit the cashmere I thought, “I should just wear them. Not for effortless chicness or jet-setting, just for the comfy coziness of them.”

I slipped them on, and noticed the tiny holes. Holes every knitter recognizes instantly—moth holes. Tiny invaders had eaten through the delicious and delicate threads.

Tears welled up in my eyes. Fresh and old grief rolled down my cheeks. It was my own fault. I’d wasted them. And I’d wasted $200.

I could have at least enjoyed them. I could have had them hemmed and worn them to shreds. I should have. Instead, maybe because grief and guilt was tied up in the threads, moths had a feast.

Which of course reminds me of that verse —one you probably know too.

Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Matthew 6:19-21

I always thought that verse was about using our treasure for godly pursuits. About not being selfish. Extravagant.

But what if the actual words are not about having nice things, it’s about storing them, hoarding them, wasting them? Maybe even hoarding the idea of them, like I did in my mind.

I was hoarding the idea of a life I wanted. I was hoarding the idea of a look I wanted. I hoarded it because I was afraid to use it, thinking that using it would have used it up.

Cashmere doesn’t last forever. Wasting it is worse than using it up. It always is.

Tracey Solomon is a widowed mom of three amazing adult sons. She’s engaged to be married, blending families and lives while working full-time as a Realtor in Southeast Michigan. Tracey thinks too much and writes so her head doesn’t explode. She dreams of writing books. She’s slightly dog-obsessed and loves knitting and coffee. Not necessarily in that order. Connect with her at traceysolomon.substack.com