Blankie Power

That’s right, I have a blankie. Well, sort of.

It’s been on vacation with me and it’s chilled out at home with me. It’s been to every marathon expo with me, and waited for me at the end of each race. I’ve laughed in it and cried in it. It’s been with me when I cleaned my house, cleaned my yard, and tried to clean up in Las Vegas. It’s my ratty, old, blue shrunken sweater covered with pulls and pills. And although I’ve lost track of its specific origin, I estimate its age at over 20 years – longer than I’ve known most of my friends, and about the age my child would be if I had one. Its been washed and worn so many times it’s almost transparent, and now requires a shirt to be worn under it in public; which is just as well as it has shrunken so much it barely covers my belly bulge. If I were in grade school, I’d draw a heart and write inside of it Beth + Sweater = TLF (true love forever). Why do I love this sweater so much? I have no idea. I just do.

From a very early age, we develop an attachment to materials that bring us comfort, starting with the blankie. Blankie goes everywhere! Blankie makes us happy! Blankie + me= TLF! Which is all good, until something very bad happens to blankie. I’ve heard horror stories of blankies falling apart in the wash, falling out of a carriage or falling out a car window, but I’ve never heard a story about a baby falling out of love with one. Its appeal is undeniable, irresistible and inevitable. My blue sweater is the adult version of my blankie, and I’ll bet you have one too.

My late Uncle’s “blankie” was his orange plaid shirt, so much so, it’s hard for me to picture him not wearing it. Literally, as he is wearing it in almost every family photo over the years. He had a highly responsible job, and his orange plaid shirt signaled the simple things in life that made him happy: family time, leisure time, his yard, the sun and his shirt, not necessarily in that order. And I’m sure if you monitored his blood pressure, it would be lowest when he was wearing his signature shirt. Much like my sweater, his shirt took quite a beating over the years, so my Aunt did what any proud family matriarch would do. She tried to replace it with a new one, which anyone who has ever tried to replace an original blankie knows is an exercise in futility. My Uncle’s love of his ratty old orange plaid shirt became the stuff family legends are made of, with my favorite story being how that shirt mysteriously found itself buried in the bottom of the trash one day, only to come back on the back of my Uncle as he calmly watered the grass in it the next morning.

I’ve seen many examples of blankie-like comfort clothes over the years, from the “power tie”, worn as a security blanket to big negotiations, to “fast socks”, superstitiously worn to important races and even “lucky underwear”, worn for reasons I’d rather not know. As logical adults, we know clothing does not have magical powers, and even Superman was still super without his cape. Still, certain pieces of clothing trigger such strong memories and emotions that they become almost impossible to part with.

Hanging in my attic, there is an old XXL sweatshirt, its neck and wrist bands barely attached by a few threads, full of holes and covered with stains, soft from the many washings in an attempt to remove them. It has escaped the trash for 12 years only because it was a favorite of my late brother Stephen- his version of my beat up, beautiful, blue blankie sweater. I’m tempted to put it on to see if its magical powers can be transferred to me, but the magic was in the man, not the clothing. So I keep it not for the power of the blankie, but for the power of love- something even stronger.