Check transition.

One of my favorite rites of seasonal change is the wardrobe swap. On Friday a box arrived from home, filled with wide wale corduroy, thick wool, and Technicolor fleece. Also included were the old velvet party dresses, a stack of September issues, and my fabled collection of tartan and checks. Thanks, Mom!

Clockwise from top: Stapleford flannel shirt, Gap wool mini purchased for my first trip to the MoMA (and Saint Patrick's and the Spotted Pig), Benetton relic from freshman year of high school, and my ruffled Ralph Lauren blouse. Sometimes I like to feel fancy while hunting wabbits (or swilling gimlets).

My prized plaid is this Stapleford shirt, pilfered from a now-infamous Carroll Street closet. I always thought it looked better on me, and now that we have become friends, I can tell him so. I am convinced that there is an entire psych dissertation behind the practice and meaning of stealing clothes from boyfriends. This shirt would be my exhibit A.

A quick Google search confirmed that this torn label hails from Urban Outfitters, land of the small brand revival. Alas, UO no longer carries this product. Not that I'll need another. Even after I find a boyfriend who wears the real deal, this tattered relic will figure prominently in my snowed-in Saturday wardrobe. (But let's keep that between you and me.)