by Amanda Hoving
Dear Perfect Fit (PF),
It’s been almost 20 years of stylish falls, whimsical winters and even some surprisingly nippy spring days. Unlike my 3 ex-boyfriends and (FORMER) hubby Harold (whom we both hated because he insisted on putting you on a hanger), I’ve been able to count on you through any crisis – fashion or otherwise. We spent thousands of hours as close as any human and item of clothing can be. Because we both know underwear stops being dependable after two years. Tops.
When I first saw you clipped tightly to the anorexic mannequin – its face so peaceful so, “Don’t worry about anything. I got this.” — I knew I had to have you. And your sign wasn’t joking when it shouted to the heavens how you were the, “perfect shirt for all occasions” How right they were!
You were there to dress up my favorite jeans and dress down my nine to five. You were there for my first keg stand and my son’s First Communion. And more absorbent than the Shamwow – you helped avert disaster at the bars while I nursed my drinks, and later while I nursed two children.
You got me through my embarrassing poetry mic night phase, and you were my sole companion at that commune in Wyoming where you matched every peasant skirt and spiritual leader I could throw under you.
My “roommate” for one glorious year in Alaska, I turned to you when the frigid weather made you a necessity every day and night, except for when you acted as a net for fishing (because survival), or the time when I had to use you as a tourniquet when that grizzly got a little friendly.
Even now I swoon at the power of your stain resistance.
I don’t care how many times Harold said you made me look just “fine.” We both know you were spectacular. I’ve tried others (on your rare laundry “spa” days – it had to be done), but they always made me look frumpy or bulgy, and absolutely none of them could be used to repair the transmission of a Honda Odyssey in a pinch.
You, dear PF, could even pull off the art of the culotte.
And when we went skydiving among the mountains of Chile, and I had to rip you from my back and use you as a makeshift parachute lest my tandem coach and I plummet to our terrifying yet stylish dooms, you remained steadfast, calm and with just the right amount of stretch for our comfort.
Not many understand our relationship, but I once tried to explain it to my mother after she remarked, yet again, about me not having “anything else” to wear.
“It says ‘dry flat for best results and reshape as needed.’ It never needs it. Don’t you get it???” I shouted at her with a fervor I mostly reserved for our lint-rolling days.
She did not get it.
Though I’ll never regret our many adventures, I know we both have mixed feelings about the “European years,” and the keto/natural deodorant debacle wasn’t the best either, even with your technologically advanced moisture-wicking features. The Braless phase was also a bit uncomfortable despite the softest fabric known to man. (Although, I think we both had some fans during that phase…amirite?)
But your age, like mine, has been starting to show, and you’ve become a mere crop top under my XL State sweatshirt, your sole job now to hide my ever-sagging jowls and turkey neck. And yesterday I found a thread, and I…pulled it. And one thing led to another (I was tired and hungry and we both know that estrogen left me months ago), and now you’re just a rag that’s only fit to dry my gushing tears of farewell. And so, I’ll do that. Try, at least.
Because even after I lovingly place you atop the junk heap, know that I will keep that framed picture from 20 years and 20 pounds ago of us at the U2 concert striking the most rad pose right before we used you as a stretcher for that unfortunate crowd surfer.
May he rest in peace.
Thank you for the supremely luxurious memories.