A Spatter of Good Intentions

I have some white knit Capri pants that I love. They have a pocket on one thigh for coins and they hug my hips snuggly making me feel sleek and thin under a Tee. So why can’t I find them? I search frantically through my drawers as the clock ticks incessantly. I’m running late and don’t need this added stress. And then it hits me! They’re in my closet bone yard; a cloth mound where all such clothing ends up eventually.

I remember donning them on the day of their death; I never meant to have a full paint session. I was only going to “fix” a spot on canvas with a ragged edge, a missing shadow, a flaw I’d seen after my last session. I only meant to dab a little paint here and a swipe there; but before I knew it, I was in full mode and totally unprepared wearing my favorite pristine pants.

There are other favorites in my plot of threads like a straight legged pair of Levi jeans that my sweetheart nicknamed “biker chic,” and a peach shirt with white stripes by Liz Claiborne that was purchased in the bargain rack especially for a peach skirt by the same name.

There are other things in my closet graveyard that I’m not so fond of: the shorts and tops I purchased because I couldn’t resist a bargain, and then find the flaws only after I get back home. The checkered shirt given to me by an ex-daughter-in-law where the checks never match up when you button the shirt. But hey, nobody’s perfect, especially me!

I was the kid in school with the scuffed shoes, and the ink on my arm or shirt because I doodled and daydreamed my way through high school. I was the uncoordinated, gangly teenager who “car hopped” or waitressed for extra money and sometimes spilled the goods on me while carrying a tray.

I was an accident waiting to happen; uncoordinated and lacking in grace, I stumbled through life. Even now I must wear a bib while eating spaghetti or look out! You know the expression: “She wears her heart on her sleeve?” Well, I wear my life on my chest; just ask my friends as I spit-wash the toothpaste from my shirt or a speck of make-up that’s spattered in embarrassing places.

And that brings me back to that paint spattered clothing on my closet floor: discarded like old remains, peeled off in layers like the skin of an onion; my own personal bone yard. I still pick through its remains (they bring back memories). I wear them when I paint (I’m recycling!). If my husband asks me about it, I say: “Hey, I’m saving the earth.”