The Sweater

It could have been the stress of having been in dowtown Chicago for hours frantically searching for a dress to wear to my friend's wedding a mere 24 hours in advance, but when I looked on the rack at Marshall Field's and saw an $850 sweater, I could have vomited what was left of my coop-farm-grown-vegetable-dinner up all over it. It was just a sweater. From what I could surmise (though I admittedly didn't look at the tag), it wasn't spun from gold. It was soft, like a sweater that's careworn from years of use - but thin, as though it wouldn't be much warmer than a long-sleeved t-shirt. $850. Roughly my take home salary every couple of weeks. Rent on a very decent 2 bedroom apartment in the Twin Cities for a whole month. Full health and dental insurance from leading companies for a family of 6. I commented to my sister that I didn't know if I could live with myself if I could pick up that sweater and pay for it without a second thought as to what all that money could mean to someone else, and she aptly pointed out that a: I won't be that person and 2: that the person buying that sweater wouldn't even think about any of that for a second. Not to mention the fact that the person making that sweater is probably making absolutely nothing.

I really don't understand how people with money sleep at night.