A Twink No More

I picked up this habit from my mom of boxing up and saving clothing that has sentimental value to me of some sort. The red t-shirt with a blue-eyed cat on it I wore on a memorable first date. The jacket my friend Sascha gave me and I wore religiously my freshman year of high school. A cream-colored button-up with science symbols all over it that hasn’t fit me in about five years and has an armpit gouged out. Things I love. A collection of cloth artifacts that prove I have a past.

Tonight, as I’m dressing for my sister’s birthday party at a dive bar in the Mission I put on a formal black vest I haven’t worn since my 21st birthday. I have pictures in it from that night with it buttoned all the way up over a gold t-shirt. I’m wearing that same vest this evening and the exaggerated lapels can barely touch around my bloated torso.

As if I needed more evidence that 21 was a really great year for my body. But I think I still look cute. Rounder and a little more rugged and a little more emotionally destroyed – but happy. Or getting there, at least.

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