Shrinking sweaters, expanding mindfulness

One cold autumn day, I was excited to pull down one of my elegant chocolate wool cardigans. It’s a piece I had proudly purchased for myself, maybe two winters ago. The temperature finally dipped enough to warrant it. But when I put it on, it felt tighter than I remembered. It was supposed to be loose, comfortably draped, like a warm hug that’s not too clingy but reassuring.

Did I gain weight? Impossible (wow, the denial). I’d just lost five kilos since last season. Then it dawned on me: it must have shrunk. Handwash only, it had warned. But in a moment of misplaced faith, I’d tossed it into the laundry on a delicate cycle. Apparently, “delicate” is still violent when it comes to wool. Yikes.

It was my second wool sweater to shrink. I’d kept both, hoping I could somehow resurrect them. But as my already modest jumper rotation dwindled, I decided, reluctantly, to hit the stores.

Did I say I hesitated? I’ve never liked shopping: the crowds, the fluorescent lights, the decision fatigue. Where do I even go? Which brand? What style? There are too many decisions when all I want is to curl up on the couch with tea and quiet. Plus, it was raining.

Should I commute or drive? Should I brave Paris or one of those sterile malls outside the city? Do I even have a budget (a crucial question even to consider going out there)?

By Friday evening, I wanted quiet time. But how do you balance “quality time” with your partner when what you’re craving is solitude? Our apartment is too small to escape into separate corners. B doesn’t mind “quiet time together,” but I don’t share his taste in entertainment (though I respect it, silently judge it, but who are we to judge). The solution: noise-cancelling headphones.

Which will bring me, oddly enough, back to the wardrobe. I’ll get there in a minute.

I owned a pair of wired, battered headphones that are still functional, technically, but the cables had gone loose, and the foam was flaking. They worked, but they no longer served. The impulsive me (well, semi-impulsive; hint - character dev) started searching for mid-tier noise-cancelling options, or as I learned, the keyword is “ANC” for active noise control.

I wanted one on my doorstep the next day (the impulsive me finding it hard to fight back), but something in me said: wait (can you imagine the whirlwind of emotion). I compared reviews and ultimately drew up criteria: wireless, mid-tier, under €200, comfortable, good mic, optional wired mode, foldable, and, if possible, in green (only negotiable bit). I slept on it (that was a long night!). The next morning, instead of ordering online, I decided to go to the store.

I’ve never liked going to stores without a specific purchase in mind. It feels like a misuse of my currencies: time, money, and mental energy. I remember, as a kid, whining (annoyingly) when my mother or sister would take me to shop, and I didn’t hesitate a bit to throw a fit. Ugh, cringe. But back to the present, knowing I had one concrete mission gave me motivation. I strategized: first the headphones, then maybe some clothes.

In less than twenty minutes, headphones acquired. I even chatted with the salesperson to cross-check my choice, which she confirmed was “perfect for what you’re looking for.” Validation! (So needy, or maybe necessary!)

So, I had time before lunch, and before B even woke up, to check a few clothing stores.

I hesitated again, but told myself: I won’t window shop; I’ll just stroll into stores I pass on the way out.

Long story short, I bought nothing. (Did I just waste your time? I promise I will make my point.)

I was picky about cuts, materials, and price. I tried on a few things, but nothing felt like a “heck yeah.” It was mostly hmm, could work, or maybe next time. Some items lingered in my mind, but I knew I could live without them.

Then, as I walked from store to store, I noticed a pattern. I kept gravitating toward styles and colors I already owned. Over a cup of yogurt, it hit me: why buy what I already have?

That simple but somehow profound realization brought a wave of pride.

I did end up buying a few practical things: thermal tights (finally!) and a set of wool socks on sale. Items I’d been meaning to buy for seasons.

And that was it.

I went home proud and satisfied. It’s not like I restricted or deprived myself. I was simply more intentional about where my currencies (time, money, effort, mental space) went. And I knew each purchase would earn its place and be put to good use.

Later that day, riding the wave of newfound contentment, I decided to try reviving my poor, shrunken cardigan. The internet swore by a method: soak it in lukewarm water with a splash of hair conditioner, rinse with cold water, then gently stretch it back into shape on a large towel while it dries. It felt like a tiny act of hope or a science experiment. It currently hangs dry by my closet, staring back at me from the bedroom every time I see it through the corner from where I sit in the kitchen. I haven’t dared try it on yet. Maybe that’s a story for another day.

As I write this, the tights and socks I bought still have their tags. But I’m in no rush. My next task is to tidy the closet and take inventory of what’s there. Something I’m surprisingly looking forward to. Nothing groundbreaking, but hopefully deeply satisfying.

If I had to define my style, I’d say: basic, clean, practical, comfortable, minimal, timeless, with a touch of preppy nostalgia. Just the way I want it. Just the way I feel good wearing them.

How would you describe your style? And how about your purchasing behavior?