The Shirt That Loves Me Anyway

I have something fun planned.  I mean, really fun, with more paint and everything.  But, two days off, and I'm having trouble getting started again.  Really, self?  Way to suck!  Guess we'll just see where this goes.

I have this t-shirt.  It's a plain, light gray Fruit of the Loom t-shirt.  It's about twelve years old.  The neckline has torn off completely, so that the right side falls off my shoulder.  More of it is worn thin than not, and the whole thing is littered with snags and tears.  Oh, and there's a gaping hole that sits across the top of my left boob.  It's really gross and should have been thrown out eight years ago, but it's so comfortable that the thought alone breaks my heart.  Plus, my husband thinks it's sexy.  So, I keep it.

My level of emotional attachment to this thing should probably be disturbing.  Cliche as it may be, that scrap of fabric is an old friend.  It's been around longer than anything else in my life, including my husband.  It's seen me through a really bad break up.  High school graduation.  It's been there at the end of really bad jobs and even worse dates.  It was with me when I spent three weeks living in a hotel (there's a story for you) and then when I went back home.  I wore it the night I moved in with the man I'm now married to (although, this was before the neckline detached and the easy access boob hole happened, so it wasn't the sexy shirt back then.)  It's seen horrible roommates, devastating mornings after, heart stopping crushes.  It caught the drops as I painted the walls of my newly bought home.  It kicked the ass of every sheer, frilly piece of lingerie on my honeymoon.  It's been thrown up on, cried on, baked in, covered in snot, bled on, and just about any other trauma one t-shirt can withstand.  If my mom wouldn't have been so uptight about it, it would have been the shirt that welcomed Pie into the world.

Actually, the more I think about it, it's not like an old friend, it's more like a second skin, one whose life has been far more interesting than my own.  The tears and stains are its battle scars, and even as it reaches its golden years, it goes on creating new ones.  I can't wear it anywhere other than home, but I guess that's good because it no longer gets washed as often as it needs to.  I'm afraid of opening the washer to find nothing but a ball of thread, so I wait until the boob hole has stretched so badly that I could pop the whole thing out.  When it finally does disintegrate, I know I'll cry.  I know my husband won't get it, because it's just a shirt, but it's not just a shirt.  It's part of me.  Does this add to my crazy?  Most likely.  But the important thing is, the shirt doesn't care.

In other news, I have a couple side projects going on.  Fun stuff, may even make it to the blog.  Eventually.  Thing is, I need a victim volunteer or two to test things out on.  Message for details if you're interested.