I've got a confession to make: I am having a love affair.
My husband has known about it for some time. He roles his eyes whenever he sees me meet the object of my affection. Of course, my squeals of delight probably embarrass him. And he frowns, giving me a reproaching look whenever I bring my love home. And I always give in and bring my obsession home. I can't help it.
I am addicted. To fabric. But especially to wool.
I love the way it feels and smells. When I first see a new piece or bolt of this luxurious material, my heart beats faster and my breath draws in with wonder. I touch it gingerly, then pet it as I examine every inch and marvel at the quality or color. I love it all--from the cheap stuff to the softest cashmere.
A few days ago, while discussing The Pillars of the Earth--a book we're both reading, I told my sister-in-law that I was really upset when the house full of wool burned. She laughed, but I was serious. I pictured all that fuzzy fleece just waiting to be molded into some form of fabulosity, transforming into hot ash. Ugh! I shudder when I think of it. Of course, the protagonist was devastated because she was financially ruined, but I was appalled at the waste of such beauty and potential. I know, I know. It's a little crazy, but I don't care. It's one of my passions!
I adore steam pressing it and breathing in the aroma while I shape it into a fiber masterpiece. It's warm and soft, and I get such a thrill when I see it in any shape or size! I love to wrap a length of it around my shoulders, revering and treasuring its beauty. I hug it to me, spin around and marvel at its magnificence in the mirror. I will never, ever tire of this exquisite textile.
So there it is. I've exposed my soul to you all and I'm not sorry. My love will wrap me in security and warmth for as long as I want. Now, if only my human true love would build me another shelf . . .