Back in the day when I was in high school, "grunge" was it. I'd call one of my friends that had a car, we'd throw on some Pearl Jam and cruise to the nearest thrift store to find the best hobo chic we could find. One day I found this amazing wool grandpa sweater that was really going to set my style apart. I chose to debut my sweater on a cool Wednesday in the fall ready to take on the mean streets of Ben Davis. It didn't occur to me that Wednesdays were plyometrics days in Advanced P.E. If you don't know what plyometrics are...well just imagine Jane Fonda doing CrossFit and you'll have a good idea. After sweating and dying for an hour I went back to change into my super amazing sweater. Well my young mind didn't realize wool is literally hotter than the blue blazes and by the time I'd walked to my next class I thought I might pass out from the heat stroke my wool sweater was inducing. Unfortunately I only had on a flimsy tank top under my sweater and we know teenage girls are clothes policed like crazy so there was no way to take off my sweater without being slut-shamed. There was also no way that I was going to put my disgusting sweaty gym shirt back on either. But staying in class was not an option. I was either leaving on a stretcher in an ambulance or I was gonna come up with a plan B. I decided that since I looked like I might pass out anyway I could probably get my teacher to believe I was coming down with the flu and she wrote me a note to the nurse's office. As soon as I got to the nurse's office I went into the female's cot room and stripped off my crazy hot sweater and fell into a long fitful, cool nap. By the time lunch rolled around I was cool enough that I could put my sweater back on without calling 911 and went on with my day. As luck would have it, I would be stupid twice that day because I threw the sweater in the washer that night not realizing that the sweater would shrink down to Barbie size after a nice hot tumble in the dryer. That damn sweater never hurt me again.
