I have a long history of dorkdom. The Firefly obsession may be only a few years old, but it was preceded by many years of obsessing about things that are Cool Only To A Select Few. (For example: Dave was laughing at me just last night as I burst into a medley of Supremes songs. I don't much care for The Supremes, but there was a period of about two months in the early nineties when I really, really did and I learned all their songs. All of them. And now I have all these song lyrics in my head, though I do not like them.)
When I was 15, I went through an E.M. Forster period. I dressed as though I lived in Edwardian England (which let me tell you, made me so popular. Couldn't find time for all my millions of friends), watched every Merchant/Ivory ever made, blushed and rewatched The Scene in A Room With a View (you know The Scene), and bought a poster. This poster:
I taped it up in my room, across the way from my poster of The English Patient (mmmm....) and contemplated living in a Villa and smelling roses and having heavy locks of red hair.
I've now relegated the poster to a corner of the downstairs hallway (where it is cheaply framed, not taped), and I no longer dress like Helena Bonham Carter. Mostly.
So clearly that bit of belly showing there would scandalize Charlotte Bartlett, but there is something about this top that speaks to me not of a band with far too many drums, but of the quiet drama and gentle tragedy that so entranced me as an overly emotional teenager.
Oh, let's not kid ourselves. I'm still her, and I'm occasionally still entranced.
In any case, I love this top. I loved knitting it, I love the yarn (gaugetastic! Hooray!) I love that I can and will wear it everywhere and to all things and not feel self-conscious in it. It looks made with love, but doesn't absolutely scream homemade. Lack of sewing required (in my case, anyway) makes for a more professional-looking garment.
And I can give a little wave to the version of myself that had the guts and the romanticism to love what I loved.