Dear black t-shirt,
I had no idea when I bought you at Target that you were magical. As far as I could tell, you were black, long-sleeved, and some sort of stretchy cotton blend. And cheap, because let’s be honest, so am I.
Since that day you have proven your worth by withstanding many wearings and washings without a lot of fading. You survived nose wipes from kids, spilled food, repeated tuggings on your sleeve cuffs, all without complaint and without scars. You hug me in the right places and pull away from the places I don’t want to be hugged. That takes talent, that does.
But yesterday I found out about your super powers. You managed to make me look put together when I’m really, really not. Well, you plus a scarf.
As I walked into the bookstore with my double stroller full of twins and my three-year-old alongside, I saw the women in the store look at me. And I saw them gasp, as people often do when the kiddies and I come calling. But instead of whispering about how my hands must be full, or grumbling about young kids in a quiet store, I heard them saying, “Wow. Look at her. She looks nicer than we do!”
Can you say ego boost?
I could have just as easily chosen a hoodie to wear yesterday. And as you and I both know, I barely squeaked in a shower before preschool drop-off. I didn’t dry my hair, so it was a wavy mess I tried disguising with a big barrette. The only explanation for the compliment was that it was all you. So thank you for that, black shirt. I don’t think I could have done it without you.
P.S. My only regret is that I didn’t buy you some identical black shirt siblings, because Target doesn’t have you stocked anymore. Someday when our relationship must come to its regretful end, I will have no back-up. And I will be sad.