Occasionally, our clothes have a tale to tell. So, if you’re sitting comfortably, then I’ll begin…
Once upon a time, I had a job which allowed me to don denim shorts. Back then, I had no car, and because no busses barreled down the route I needed to travel, I set off on foot in scorching sun up the street in Cyprus to a rather posh department store which stocked what I needed. Or so I thought.
The walking wore me out, and when I finally reached my destination, they didn’t have my size in stock. So they said they’d order ‘em special. Just for me.
Three weeks I waited. Then the call came. I went back on foot to the shop again, and there they were — the shorts I should have had. And, they were exceedingly expensive.
I hitchhiked home (sorry, Mom).
Many moons later, the shorts have become a different sort of uniform. I’ve done some hard labor in them lately, and each paint spatter has a special meaning. Like the time I single-handedly revamped sixty white tables with not a drop spilled, but on the last one, knocked the whole tin of paint on the ground. The spray arc of liquid went slo-mo through the air before it landed. The Boss went bananas.
But as long as I can wear these shorts to make a living, I’ll know that I’m needed, wanted and loved.
Bear’s just jealous they don’t fit him.
Love and light