Love Story

I have a bad habit of falling in love with my clothes. I get a crush on a particular item and I wear it until it dies. I still remember with great fondness a pair of snug fitting, brushed denim jeans I had when I was seventeen. I wore those to work at Jewel Foods, to school, and every opportunity in between. I felt elated when they would come out of the dryer, and loved that dryer warmth as I quickly pulled them on. I can buy ten pairs of shorts, dozens of socks, and shirts, but if it doesn't feel right it will languish in my dresser drawer. My love for a particular shirt is why I have so many photos of me wearing that rainbow, ribbed shirt. I loved it. This sickness even encompasses my choice of socks. I have one pair of socks that I save until the right day, when I feel I'll need maximum comfort. I'm not sure why I like that pair best, I have two dozen other pair exactly like it. Also in my drawer right now, I have at least seven pair of shorts. Out of those seven I wear but three, and of those three, two are simply stand-ins until my favorite comes out of the laundry. I am wearing that pair right now as I write this. Unfortunately this, my favorite pair of shorts, is not long for this world. A few days ago while pulling them on I thought I heard a rip. Not a loud rending of fabric, but a barely audible rip. It wasn't until I put my favorite pair of shorts on this morning that I realized I had blown the ass out. I am very sad that I will now have to go on a shopping excursion to find another pair that I can fall in love with. Especially since I still have two pair in my drawer that I have not worn since I walked out of Marshall's fitting room months ago. Oh well, at least I know Mark will be happy. We're going shopping!