Day 20 - write about your favorite article of clothing
It was 1996 (approximately) and I had a T-shirt emblazoned with an otter named Emmett. I loved that shirt - as I remember, I cried when I outgrew it or had to give it away (throw it away?) because it was quite sad from so much use. I am aware of my predilection for assigning too much value to material objects, so I intentionally try to keep my life somewhat simple (not always as successfully as I would like) - this shirt was no exception.
The thing about favorite articles of clothing is they have a life of their own; Emmett was an otter at the Salisbury Zoo in Salisbury, Maryland. It was the zoo I grew up going to with a fun and interactive children's area with a life-size nest you could climb into and plastic lilypads you could use to perilously cross a shallow creek. It had prairie dogs that seemed to run wild and popped up like Whack-a-moles and peacocks that actually were free to roam. It was a little girl's delight and a place where my curiosity was ever fed but never fully satisfied. But the pinnacle of it all was a friendly, playful otter named Emmett, who, presumably, was getting a new habitat since I find it likely that the shirts were fundraising items. Anyway, he was the star of the show with his cute, ambling gallop, his humongous personality, and his aquatic antics. Everyone loved Emmett. And because I loved Emmett, I loved the shirt - so much so, that as with many of the things I loved in my childhood, I loved the life right out of it after many nights spent sleeping in it and days playing in it.
My Emmett shirt wasn't the first or the last favorite piece of clothing: there was the Ernie Irvin shirt that was way too big, but worked as a nightgown and let me be part of my dad's world as I showed pride in my favorite Nascar driver. There was my boyfriend's sweatshirt that I stole that smelled just like him and was later replaced by my own sweatshirt from his alma mater - neatly sprayed with his cologne. These were, perhaps, the Linus blankets of my childhood, adolescence, and early adult life - a comforting item in an ever-broadening world of uncertainty and possibility. They were a small piece of home that could accompany me in whatever new adventure lay ahead.
It was 1996 (approximately) and I had a T-shirt emblazoned with an otter named Emmett. I loved that shirt - as I remember, I cried when I outgrew it or had to give it away (throw it away?) because it was quite sad from so much use. I am aware of my predilection for assigning too much value to material objects, so I intentionally try to keep my life somewhat simple (not always as successfully as I would like) - this shirt was no exception.
The thing about favorite articles of clothing is they have a life of their own; Emmett was an otter at the Salisbury Zoo in Salisbury, Maryland. It was the zoo I grew up going to with a fun and interactive children's area with a life-size nest you could climb into and plastic lilypads you could use to perilously cross a shallow creek. It had prairie dogs that seemed to run wild and popped up like Whack-a-moles and peacocks that actually were free to roam. It was a little girl's delight and a place where my curiosity was ever fed but never fully satisfied. But the pinnacle of it all was a friendly, playful otter named Emmett, who, presumably, was getting a new habitat since I find it likely that the shirts were fundraising items. Anyway, he was the star of the show with his cute, ambling gallop, his humongous personality, and his aquatic antics. Everyone loved Emmett. And because I loved Emmett, I loved the shirt - so much so, that as with many of the things I loved in my childhood, I loved the life right out of it after many nights spent sleeping in it and days playing in it.
My Emmett shirt wasn't the first or the last favorite piece of clothing: there was the Ernie Irvin shirt that was way too big, but worked as a nightgown and let me be part of my dad's world as I showed pride in my favorite Nascar driver. There was my boyfriend's sweatshirt that I stole that smelled just like him and was later replaced by my own sweatshirt from his alma mater - neatly sprayed with his cologne. These were, perhaps, the Linus blankets of my childhood, adolescence, and early adult life - a comforting item in an ever-broadening world of uncertainty and possibility. They were a small piece of home that could accompany me in whatever new adventure lay ahead.
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