Shirt of many uses
NS February 9th, 2009
You know that song Dolly Parton sang, in her sweet little warbling twang, about the coat of many colours? Well, I may not have a patchwork coat that my mama made me before she done gone and died, leaving me to be raised by my dirt-poor, God-fearin’, whiskey-drinkin’ coalminer daddy, but I do have a shirt of many uses. It’s the shirt I wear when I know I’m going to be doing a variety of things which will likely result in matter or liquid of some description ending up on my chest, arms and/or back. I clean in it, wear it when one of my children are sick, or when I am just feeling too lousy to make an effort in my appearance whatsoever. I only wear it a couple times a month (“Thank god!” TNH will say) but when I do it signifies my sense of abandon with regards to the day — things will NOT be as they usually are, due to illness or mood or cleaning project.
Why, just today my shirt of many uses was puked on (twice), spit on, used as an impromptu face washer, dust cloth, spill cleaner and tissue. It started out blue but I’m not sure what colour is qualifies as now…perhaps whitish grey? It’s utterly shapeless and does my body little justice. I love it and am repulsed by it at the same time. If I tried to donate it to a charity shop I’m sure the nice lady working there would recoil and horror and tell me that, actually, that little village in the western Sahara doesn’t need clean water or a school after all, thankyouverymuch.
I knew things had gone beyond hope for this shirt to be treated with at least some respect as a garment, not a rag, when I used it to wipe my own nose while trying to nurse TNB to sleep earlier this evening. Right there next to the baby vomit, peanut butter smear and clumps of thick dust from where I cleaned out the light fixture shades for the first time in over a year today…my own disgusting mark added to it like another square sewn onto a quilt.
Needless to say, my shirt of many uses isn’t something I’ll be passing down as a family heirloom.
