I have a tendency to attach to things. People, clothes, books, houses – I never let them go unless they break my heart or fall apart, whatever happens first.
This particular fellow has been with me for so long, and I love it still, even though it sits low on the waist, even though it is wider below the knees, even though it is out of style, and even though it has a little stain from the time we painted the house and it rubbed against the wet wall.
While it may not be fashionable, it is all mine, with its floral pattern, situated exactly on my but, that smiles at me each time I pull it out of the closet. When I combine it with my heavy wooden clogs, I feel cool, at ease, ragged and eternally loyal… to it, but mostly to myself.