Although worn out and beaten thin, my favorite t-shirt reigns supreme. Its rugged exterior presents a shabby disposition. Many new t-shirts have found their way into the velvet lined drawers of my antique armoire. None stand in comparison against the weathered softness of my favorite t-shirt. Folds of cotton threads have been pulled and stretched from their original contour. Nevertheless, its flaws are cherished. Block letters that once read Nike are barely recognizable anymore.
Years of laundry rituals have taken their toll and left behind the moments when the red letters were bright and vibrant with life. The letters were proud and forthright, demanding attention while boastfully advertising its fabricator. Now they are faded and dull. Time, no doubt, had its hand in generously removing all luster. Nonetheless, sensations of gratification can’t be replaced by any imposters, once inside the t-shirts cheerful armor. All other t-shirts would probably find me irrational.
Willingly, I bypass their attempts to gain my attention with dynamic colors, trending quotes and cutting edge design. Comfort and loyalty lie between the inches of seasoned fabric. My favorite t-shirt diligently awaits my return. There are small holes of distress, perfectly spaced where my right arm collides with my right shoulder. The holes Increase the intimacy we share. Vintage is at its finest display. There is a sizable discoloration at the very bottom. It clearly confirms that spaghetti sauce abandons stubborn stains and arrogantly clings to cotton threads.
Neither time nor trend has threatened its stock in this priceless artifact of my wardrobe. Granted my t-shirt is ancient and beaten weary with experience, its position is incomparable as first choice always. The flimsy pullover has witnessed many changes while never altering its purpose. Certain occurrences in my life appeal to the relaxation evident between the coziness of its structure. Constant and true to it‘s owner, I’m enraptured in tranquility once the t-shirt is draped across my torso. The aroma of original Gain scented detergent procrastinates deep within its tendril.
More than a decade of ceremonial fabric softening has persuaded my t-shirt’s silky manipulation, as well as enhancing my t-shirt’s surface, leaving it luxuriously delicate to the touch. As the years pass by, the journey records itself across the face of my t-shirt. It’s presence is fluid and honest. Exemplified by the loss of elasticity in its cords with such delightful demeanor, it practically folds itself after a tumble in the dryer. Although, the colors have grown dull and drab, my t-shirt is neither shy nor bashful.
As steady as a solider defending their post, I’m protected in peace as it graces my skin. It is an absolute pleasure to wrap myself in. Gracefully, the t-shirt proceeds toward divine with every move I make while wearing it. Meanwhile, my t-shirt possesses healing powers that cause waves of emotions, inside thoughts of utter bliss and comfort. Legions of t-shirts align themselves to become the favored of the lot. None will ever angle themselves within the light of my most admired. Nor will they come close to the calmness or exhilaration, trapped amid the time twisted twines of my beloved Nike tee.