by Cristina Mueller (Berkeley)
Here it is: a perfectly soft, worn-in, army green short-sleeve button-down shirt I found lurking on a rack of men’s sweaters the other day. It is to my unending delight an old Boy Scout shirt—I’m guessing from the 50s or 60s. (He must have been a very big Boy Scout, the original owner, and a not very good one at that—the shirt’s slouchy and super-roomy, and there’s nary a patch or a badge to be found.)
It’s the sort of score that’s so exactly what you always wanted that (if you are anything like me) you instantly begin mourning the day—3, 5, 10 years down the road—when you inevitably leave the shirt somewhere, your friend borrows it and then “loses” it or it becomes stained beyond belief. Suffice it to say, I am presently guarding it VERY jealously.