my shirt
I can measure eras of my life in shirts. In high school, I had this great purple and cream colored flannel shirt that was my "go to" for when I came home and just needed to settle in and snuggle. I remember that for my 16th birthday my parents gave me a beautiful amethyst birthstone ring which I wore all the time. One day I couldn't find it, and panic ensued. Mom even said some prayers to St. Jude, patron saint of the lost. I finally found it in the front breast pocket of that flannel shirt.
In college I first went through my "huge red sweatshirt from St. John's University" phase. It was huge, almost down to my knees and super warm. I wonder what happened that shirt? I know that for a period of about 2 years every picture of me seems to show me wearing that shirt. My next favorite, which lasted for awhile was a thick cotton plaid, blue and grey and white. I wore that shirt until it just feel apart. I remember coming home from college one break and my brother looking at and saying, 'Weren't you wearing that shirt when you left?" Probably, I was.
The last favorite shirt was a blue hooded sweatshirt. I bought it from a street vendor in Washington DC when I was there with my mom. That week in DC with my mom was one of the best trips I've ever had. We went to the opera, shopped, drank, laughed (a lot). I got to see the NEA building and where my mom had spent so much of her time, meet some of her friends. It was a great week. Since that time, I've worn that blue hooded sweatshirt almost every day. At first, the letters on the front started to come unstitched, giving it a sort of raggedy appearance. The a hole appeared as the stitching in the armpit let loose. That one, I fixed. Then the edges of the sleeves and the bottom started to fray and holes appeared in material at the cuff. Then the holes stared to spread, new ones appeared, putting my arm into the sleeve meant several tries to find the actual arm hole.
Bob has offered to buy me a new sweatshirt, but I tried to explain to him that it's not that easy. I mean, I have other sweatshirts and warm cozy sweaters that I like. My Georgia sweatshirt is pretty nice, even. But none of them have that perfect blend of softness, not too thick or not too thin, the right fit in the shoulders, a color that matches my collection of comfy pajama bottoms. So I've held onto the Washington sweatshirt and wished for the magic elves to come into my home and night and sew it up as good as new. You know, like in the story of the Elves and the Shoemaker?''
Yesterday I realized it was time to give it up. It can't stand another washing but it can't stand another wearing. Pushing the trauma of shirt disposal to the back of my mind, I went on with my day. I stopped at Fred Meyer's for a some bread and broccoli and walked right be a display of Alaskan Grown sweatshirts. Ali has a bright orange Alaskan Grown sweatshirt that she loves so I figured I'd take a look. I felt, I smelled, I thought, I bought a sweatshirt. A big green one.
So far it's feeling pretty good. I took a nap in it and it didn't feel too thick. It's not itchy against my skin. It just might work. Maybe it's the start of the next era in my cozy shirt life.
Bob has suggested we give the old shirt a Viking funeral in the woodstove, and I'm going to have to ponder the best course of action for shirt disposal. Until then, here's my tribute to shirts. More than just fabric.
In college I first went through my "huge red sweatshirt from St. John's University" phase. It was huge, almost down to my knees and super warm. I wonder what happened that shirt? I know that for a period of about 2 years every picture of me seems to show me wearing that shirt. My next favorite, which lasted for awhile was a thick cotton plaid, blue and grey and white. I wore that shirt until it just feel apart. I remember coming home from college one break and my brother looking at and saying, 'Weren't you wearing that shirt when you left?" Probably, I was.
The last favorite shirt was a blue hooded sweatshirt. I bought it from a street vendor in Washington DC when I was there with my mom. That week in DC with my mom was one of the best trips I've ever had. We went to the opera, shopped, drank, laughed (a lot). I got to see the NEA building and where my mom had spent so much of her time, meet some of her friends. It was a great week. Since that time, I've worn that blue hooded sweatshirt almost every day. At first, the letters on the front started to come unstitched, giving it a sort of raggedy appearance. The a hole appeared as the stitching in the armpit let loose. That one, I fixed. Then the edges of the sleeves and the bottom started to fray and holes appeared in material at the cuff. Then the holes stared to spread, new ones appeared, putting my arm into the sleeve meant several tries to find the actual arm hole.
Bob has offered to buy me a new sweatshirt, but I tried to explain to him that it's not that easy. I mean, I have other sweatshirts and warm cozy sweaters that I like. My Georgia sweatshirt is pretty nice, even. But none of them have that perfect blend of softness, not too thick or not too thin, the right fit in the shoulders, a color that matches my collection of comfy pajama bottoms. So I've held onto the Washington sweatshirt and wished for the magic elves to come into my home and night and sew it up as good as new. You know, like in the story of the Elves and the Shoemaker?''
Yesterday I realized it was time to give it up. It can't stand another washing but it can't stand another wearing. Pushing the trauma of shirt disposal to the back of my mind, I went on with my day. I stopped at Fred Meyer's for a some bread and broccoli and walked right be a display of Alaskan Grown sweatshirts. Ali has a bright orange Alaskan Grown sweatshirt that she loves so I figured I'd take a look. I felt, I smelled, I thought, I bought a sweatshirt. A big green one.
So far it's feeling pretty good. I took a nap in it and it didn't feel too thick. It's not itchy against my skin. It just might work. Maybe it's the start of the next era in my cozy shirt life.
Bob has suggested we give the old shirt a Viking funeral in the woodstove, and I'm going to have to ponder the best course of action for shirt disposal. Until then, here's my tribute to shirts. More than just fabric.
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