100 word exercise (clothing)

Sorry this took so long to put up…i had some technical difficulties. But I can now edit the motherblog and all is well. Ok, so here goes.

Pick one article of clothing–your favorite shirt, shoe, earring, sock, tie…whatever. Write a 100 word short about your relationship with this piece of clothing.

 A pair of green-and-red-striped socks. Warning: to be worn on Christmas Eve ONLY. These socks shall not be slid onto smelly feet on any other day during the year. Do not wash in washing machine, as their integrity, both physically and metaphysically, may be at risk. Hand wash cold in mild detergent, hang dry. Should holes begin to form, try to limit your mobility, as they should not be sewn or mended with foreign thread. If you find that your feet no longer fit in the socks, assume it is because they always fit that way, you merely forgot since last year.

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8 Responses

  1. I only put on my polka-dot dress in times of Great Need or Distress. It came out for my cousin’s Bar Mitzvah, when I could anticipate needing a mood lifter after having my cheeks pinched a thousand times by foreign aunts. It was also the perfect panacea for high school angst. Slipping into it, along with some oversized pearls and high heels, I’d traipse across my room as though I were Audrey incarnate. But sometimes, I’d just sit cross-legged in my closet and let the taffeta scratch my legs. It was nice having a world so easily reduced to some black-and-white dots.

  2. I forget this heavenly robe most of the time, and remember it only when the transition from shower to jeans seems too abrasive. Why not linger a little longer in the sweet, damp post-shower bliss? So out comes the downy robe, pink and softer than rabbit’s fur. My mother got it for me right before college. “So that you have something luxurious,” she said in the Gap Body store in the mall. The fabric woven from clouds and cashmere, it seems. It folds around my skin and relaxes my muscles until I am a swathed, beaming goddess.

  3. A thick strip of black fur curls like a fat cat around the neckline of the cardinal-colored coat. It used to play at my ears when I wore it, producing the sensation of a thousand fruit flies all clambering to crawl into my brain when I moved. The nana with the wavering mouth and large checkbook purchased this fine vestment for me, and now she’s gone and the coat – too small to wear and too beautiful to sell – hides in the downstairs closet. It whispers compliments it heard me receive: She looks like a Russian princess! Oh, isn’t that coat adorable on her?! My, my, red is certainly little Laura’s color!

  4. Lime and mini with navy piping. For the junior-high dance, I set it off with gold fishnet tights, chunky heel shoes. I felt eighth-grade in even though I had skipped seventh and lived in England for sixth. My cool was more 1970 Brit than New Hampshire, but not tonight. I floated into the school auditorium, the big disco ball tossing its confetti colors, and eyes found me, me. All the girls, Jimmy MacDougall, Danny Cole, Nate Edgcomb. Peter Warren, who never looked at me, slid over, top dog, interested, and whispered, “Great dress. Too bad Polly Peasley isn’t wearing it.”

  5. This sweatshirt has been with me for a while – eight years to be exact. The grey body has become lighter from too much washing as the rims of the sleeves have become darker from too many encounters with food, dirt, and other grime. The tags, once marked “Birsky” to make sure the other girls knew it was mine, are now faded and barely legible – I thought Sharpie was supposed to be permanent. The orange-lined navy words “Camp Lincoln – Camp Lake Hubert” stamped across the chest have begun to crack. It’s amazing how fabric changes over time, softening and reshaping; the result of wearing, washing machines, dryers, being thrown in the dirt, being stuffed into suitcases, being drenched in summer rains. Just as amazing, however, is how well it holds, how well it sticks with its owner, how well it keeps memories.

  6. Raining you say? Work got you down? Or is it that you need to be comforted because you had too much for dinner? The black warmth can love you, the cashmere will envelop. If one needs a silent listening friend, it will be there to hold you. It is the barely distinguishable cable knit worked into the slightly large dimensions of the sweater that make my comfort so true. The conversations we’ve had over the years make the outside a little fuzzy looking, but the sweater is still there for when I need it, when I want someone to understand and hug me in the softest way possible.

  7. My feet were starting to catch on the hole between the hem and the pant leg. Should I rip off the hem? I could fix it; then again, I could just see what happens without it. At the very least I’ll remember having torn it off and why. Why should memory stay stuck in a journal that no one’ll read, that I’ll maybe look at in twenty years? So I yanked off the lazy thing. Now a hole is starting in the right knee and I’m still wearing them, waiting to understand why.

  8. It was there in the closet of my father’s old clothes. I found Gogol’ overcoat or rather it found me. I wore it once, to a winter wedding, a formal occasion. It’s in my closet, at home, and everytime I go back home its still there and everytime I’m always surprised. One day I know it’ll lose me and everything will be normal, and I’ll think then, “Akakievich, why were you so depressed? It’s just a coat?”

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