I have this sweatshirt. It’s ugly and old and definitely stained. It’s faded and dated and is generally thought to be hideous.
So of course I freaking love this sweatshirt. Check it out:
I first came across it when I was house-sitting for my in-laws. The sweatshirt was hanging in my father-in-law’s (FiL’s) closet. I totally couldn't resist making fun of it. Because, come on, it’s a sweatshirt from the eighties with geese on it. And it was apparently worthy of a hanger. Which is saying a lot because, frankly, not everything is worthy of a hanger. Some clothes deserve to be hidden in the dark recesses of a dresser.
Weeks went by and I totally forgot about the ancient sweatshirt until I was at my in-law’s and was terribly sick. I had a fever and chills and was miserable. I asked for a sweatshirt, something I could just wear for the car ride back to our house, because I was so flipping cold. My FiL went immediately to his closet and offered me, none other than, The Goose sweatshirt.
I didn’t laugh or snub it. I was thankful to have it and I pulled the old, baggy thing on immediately. I feel asleep with my arms and legs tucked inside The Goose sweatshirt.
I had every intention of washing the thing and returning it the next day. What reason would I have for keeping something like this? I couldn’t wear it to the office on caj Friday. But I was still feeling crappy the next day so I wore the sweatshirt while I vegged on the couch.
When I started to feel better I tossed The Goose in the laundry pile. It was clean but I couldn’t part with it. I kept it tucked safely in my closet. When I was sad, I wore The Goose, when I was PMSing I wore The Goose, when I was sick I wore The Goose.
I love this silly thing and all is right with the world. The Goose comforts me and I care for The Goose. Yin and Yang. The circle of life and all that stuff.
Then last week happened. I had a terrible week. My boss gave me terrible news:
I’m getting laid off.
I got angry. I yelled. I pouted. And I may have thrown a bit of fit. So, naturally, I needed the The Goose.
But it was no where to be found. The Goose was gone. I looked in the dirty laundry. I dug through my winter clothes. I even took my dresser drawers out and dumped them on the floor.
And I cried. I cried a lot.
Sure, life at work was in the pooper. Sure, my WIP has stalled. But the icing on the cake was NO GOOSE.
My hubby and sister got together and tried to find it. Luckily, after days of searching, my husband found my sweet Goose sweatshirt crammed between the wall and my dresser.
I was so happy to get my Goose back. See:
Now, making decisions about my Day Job and my WIP seem a little less scary. Welcome back Goose.
Do you have a ‘Goose’ of your own?
Need more on how our Day Jobs can make us better writers?
Check out this post about taking criticism.
Or this post on Stability and Creativity.
Or this post on Discipline - you gotta have it.