Corrupting Influences

There are two gorgeous things in this photo. Yes, two. Obviously, Tom Hiddleston is one of them, and most of the time I'd stop right there. But look closer. Go on, zoom in. See it?

Yes, the suit. Seriously, look at it! Ok, maybe I should explain. It's actually all my mom's fault.

My mother is a genius with fabric. She was a home economics major, back in the day when those existed, and it was a serious composite major too, not some floofy stupid thing. She can do anything with thread and needle, and really knows (and loves) fabrics. When I was growing up, she would frequently drag me along on her fabric store excursions. Naturally, as a kid, this bored me to death. TO. DEATH. I hated it with a stone-cold loathing. Rows and rows of fabric? Was she trying to kill me slowly?

One day when I was about thirteen or fourteen we ended up at the G Street Fabrics in Rockville MD, which in my personal experience is the end-all, be-all of fabric stores. At the time though, I was just a surly teenager with a chip on my shoulder, so while she went off to look for something, I slouched near the entrance, really working the world-class sulkathon. However, boredom and ADHD mix about as well as oil and water, and I soon noticed IT.

It was early fall, so the store had loads of displays of seasonal fabrics, but this one in particular stood out to me, I couldn't tell you why. IT was a huge display of wool fabrics, draped alluringly near the stairs. There were plaids, stripes and solids, wool crepes, suiting wool, heavy coat material, blends and pure wool, and something about it beckoned me. So, still working the sulk and far to cool to really care, I wandered over, intending to glance and sneer.

Maybe it was something about the light, or maybe it was the colors in that first bolt of fabric. Whatever it was, something connected with that first touch of wool, and my mother's genes - and obsession with fabrics - exploded right then and there, and there was no turning back. Mom came back not long after, having found what she needed, and had a good laugh at my expense. I'm pretty sure she never expected to see me poring over fabric of any kind, oohing and aahing about the hand and the drape and the color, hissing "My precious," like some kind of textile-obsessed Gollum.

I still don't sew well, certainly nothing like my mom, but my love of fabric remains strong. So when I see a gorgeous, gorgeous suit like this one, the tailoring gets an appreciative notice but my real reaction is "OMGTHEWOOLLOOKATITITSSOPRETTY." I want to hold that jacket in my hands and feel it, examine the color - that subtle charcoal is a thing of beauty but you know that upon closer inspection there has to be a tiny pinstripe of some other color in the plaid - blue or maybe red. I'm dying to touch it - is it pure wool or is it blended with cashmere or silk - or both?

So there are two beautiful things in that picture. Go on and enjoy looking at both.