See, I’ve got too many clothes because I keep all my old faves from years gone by. My drawers are packed with tattered jerseys, fraying undies, and lonely socks praying for their partners to please come home. On top of all that, I’ve got dusty gems I can’t bear to toss — like a shirt I got for being Paperboy of the Month twenty years ago and one my friends made to celebrate a massive TV-watching marathon. Go Team Couch Potato.
Now, despite the junky Grandma’s basement nature of my closet I do sometimes throw on hip waders and slip into the deep to try and fish things outta there. Usually I end up tossing an old pair of crap job shoes and a Genera Hypercolor T-shirt before it eventually happens: I pull out a faded pair of jeans from long, long ago.
My rusty brain suddenly flashes back to Saturday afternoons in the fitting room, the nervous first wash, and all those years this pair was #1 in my rotation. I hold it’s aging smooth-patches-and-lintballs body in my hands and suddenly decide to see if I can slip back into its cozy comfort.
As I close my door, shut my blinds, and yank that second skin up onto my plump, doughy ass I fondly remember rainy concerts, awkward makeout sessions, and dark summer nights in the park. I walk around the room and feel those shredded hems, smooth inside pockets, and all the old creases bending in just the right places.
I feel like I’m warmly welcoming an old friend back into my life.
I feel like I’m finally home.
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