So . . . we meet again, eh, Herr Shrunken Sweater? And again and again and again. . . . This was once a good—nay, great—idea: a weentsy sweatery-shrug that stopped just south of one's chestal regions, lending a certain niceness to one's washboard abs (strong enough for a man, but made by a woman).

Except that it's been with us for how long? Gotta be the better part of five years—an eternity for anything not made out of denim and called Seven Jeans. At this point, the only thing older than the shrunken sweater—a.k.a. the ballet sweater, the dance sweater, the cropped cardigan—is the sweater duster: what people in New York call the sweater coat.

Which means two things are now possible: either the shrunken sweater is destined to become its generation's Members Only/ski jacket or—and this is scarier—it will never leave. Like Seven Jeans. And mankind will be stuck with it for all eternity. Could be worse: it's sorta hot, actually. Hot like sexy—something you'd never say of Members Only.


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