A rip appeared in the elbow of one of my very favorite work shirts this week. It's a spring colored shirt, somewhat light blue with fairly but not too bright green stripes. As with so many of my best shirts, I found it some time ago in a thrift store, meaning that someone else, a greatly valued if unseen partner, had performed much of the invaluable work of wearing it to optimal softness.
I was saddened by this occurence and thought that maybe I should shorten the sleaves and make a summer shirt of it. Then last weekend I was talking to Crabill about it and he said that either he or Whitsel had tried that with a favorite shirt and it just hadn't worked. I am already $40 in to the failed experiment of putting patches on my grey chamois shirt that is now so uncomfortable that I never wear it. It hangs in the purgatory of my closed waiting for me to admit that its failure and consign it to the waste bin. Or take it back to the thrift store, where it might be useful to someone else.
Last weekend's conversation at least confirmed that I am not crazy in these thoughts and schemes. Or maybe I am, but I am far from alone in my craziness, that it is veritably in the water here. Which comforts me.
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