The Perfect Black Cardigan, of sorts

I've been obsessing lately over a black cardigan. Namely, the Perfect Black Cardigan.

The black cardigan, you see, is the anchor of my wardrobe. It goes with everything. It allows me to get extra mileage out of all my summer sleeveless tops. It dresses up a shirt for work. It keeps me warm. It is the go-to item, the throw-it-on-to-complete-an-outfit piece that I can always rely on.

I actually own many black cardigans, mainly because I am obsessed with finding and possessing the perfect one. But one is too stretched out; the other is nice, but short-sleeved; one is a little itchy; another got ruined when I washed it instead of taking it to the dry cleaners (oops.)

I had a Perfect Black Cardigan once (perfectly fitted, soft and finely knit, unobtrusive buttons, v-neck shaped, stops at the hips...oh yes, I've thought about this a lot.) Nominally, still do, but it's been left somewhere and I'm losing hope of getting it back anytime soon, if ever. (More on this later.)

As I've hinted at a bit on this blog, I've been going through a break-up, of sorts, lately. Of sorts, in the same way that Friendster allows you to label your relationship status as "it's complicated." (As if there are relationships that aren't complicated.) Of sorts, in the way that if you were never officially together, it's not quite clear if you can officially not be together. Of sorts, in that I'm not even totally sure if the person on the other end of this complicated relationship (of sorts) would even realize or acknowledge or agree that what has happened is a break-up. But whatever. I don't know the terminology to describe what I'm going through, so a break-up it is.

(Isn't it the eskimos who have seven different words for love? How woefully inadequate our language is, in comparison, in describing matters of the heart.)

So the cardigan, the Perfect Black one, is in the possession of my ex-something (of sorts), and getting it back is not working so well.

And so I've become obsessed with this cardigan. Every day, it's the item I want to wear. I have become increasingly aware of the inadequacy of all my other black cardigans. I have scoured stores across Boston, looking for a replacement. It's taking up a lot of my mental energy (and yes, I *do* realize just how pathetic this sounds.)

I was telling my roommate about the Saga of the Perfect Black Cardigan this morning (because all I seem capable of talking about these days are black cardigans and the of sorts breakup) and I joked that I was (almost) more upset over the loss of this cardigan than of the relationship.

She looked at me for a second, and then she said, "You realize that's called displacement, right?"

No, I didn't.

For some reason, I find this oddly hilarious. Deeply insightful and very likely true, but funny none the less. It's become a great running metaphor. For example, I'm learning to accept that I may not be able to find the exact same Perfect Black Cardigan in a store, but that doesn't mean I can't find an equally good or better one. Or that even though it seems like it could be so easy, I will probably never be able to get my original Perfect Black Cardigan back. Or today, when I bought a Slightly Less than Perfect Black Cardigan at the mall, I pointed out that, while I normally think one should not buy any old black cardigan just for the sake of owning one, that when one really needs a black cardigan, a less than perfect one will do in a pinch.

Thing is this: when you've seen the Perfect Black Cardigan, when you've worn it and owned it and know for sure that it exists, it makes it very difficult to settle for any less-than-perfect cardigans. But perhaps all the more motivated to go out and find it again.