If you know your closet or dresser you know exactly where your favorite shirt or pants or cut-offs live. Depending on the season I have a favorite t-shirt for summer and sweat shirt for winter. I of course do not have a favorite dress. I don’t even own a dress. Why I have a few pair of shoes that would go with a dress is still a mystery to me. I think maybe at some time in my past I must have had to dress for success, and those shoes just scurried to hide in the back of the closet when all things that pushed me into a dress went by the wayside.
I know this is not a girl/guy thing. We all have that favorite, feels too good to get rid of and it fits like it was new, piece of memorable clothing. But! Yes an ill-fitting “but.” Trust me here, they do not look like they are new when they are older than your favorite movie. Especially if that movie is only available in black and white.
I looked at my most favorite t-shirt just a few days ago because summer is always on the way. I found, to my utter disappointment, a teeny tiny hole in the cloth. Oh I will still plan on wearing it. Come on. It’s my favorite t-shirt. I know a guy that has a favorite Seattle Seahawk shirt and I do think he will carry it with him to heaven. I know a girl who would live in her ZZ Top shirt if she could get away with it. To be sure I would let her do just that. I would however become its owner if she ever got tired of it. So yes, this love of that one holey, stain ridden, neck stretched out, thread bare t-shirts in areas where they should not be thread bare, does cross the man/woman boundary of laundry items we all seem to cling to.
Human nature is an amazing thing to dissect. Look at just this clothing issue. Do you think a dog or cat or a fish gets up on a fine summer day, looks in their closet and says, “Well what shall I wear today.” Nope, only we humans do that. Well us humans who do not live in nudist colonies. Oh, and I would hazard to bet that even they try to decide what kind of earrings or shoes to wear out into the sunshine. Come on, we all want to look our best, even naked. Let’s move on before this gets any weirder.
I wish I could know all the stories behind how all our favorite pieces of clothing came into our possessions. Here’s mine for those who are keeping track. Well, would you look at that? I am wearing my favorite sweatshirt as I write this story. It of course is heather gray. I have tried many colors over the years but this light gray seems to screech my name as I look at other piles of sweatshirts in stores and the mountains of catalogs I seem to get. My color of choice of other things seems to travel to florescent lime green. But I do go on, again don’t I.
The delightful heather gray seems to have the ability to hide a marriott of past spills and dances that I have encountered with meals of days gone by. I would estimate this fine sweatshirt’s age to be around 22 years old. So comfy but as we can all say of our favorite pieces of body coverings, it still looks good, if only to me. Over the years it has taken many naps with me. Inside and outside. Been on many adventures and seen miles and miles of highways and bi-ways along life’s travels with me. My favorite sweatshirt has its own personality and of course in grand black letters and style states its own outlook on life. Very happily with words printed across the front of it and me. I absolutely and hardily agree with the words. Here is what it reads, “OMNIA MIHI LINGVA GRAECASVNT.”
Well of course I could tell you what it means! But what fun would that be. I bought it out of one of those crazy catalogs we all seem to get throughout the years of our lives. It appeared to me at a time in my life that its message hit the proverbial nail on the head. I will tell you this. At that time it told exactly how I felt and to a large extent it still shouts out how I feel today and every day as I move through life.
Trina lives in Eureka, Nevada. Her newest book, They Call Me Weener is available on Amazon.com or email her at firstname.lastname@example.org to find out how to get a signed copy.