“That’s a small?!”
Somewhere in our military storage (the location of which I can roughly narrow down to “somewhere on one of three continents”) there is a photo album. In this photo album is a picture, that my parents find hilarious, of me as an infant dressed in a once-white onesie and absolutely covered in spaghetti and sauce, and completely thrilled about the situation. Though I can’t remember the incident it seems to have kicked off a lifetime curse of being messy/klutzy/generally imparied when it comes to cleanliness, pasta sauce, and white shirts.
Eating luch at J.’s I was attacked by a tortellini shell which took an enthusiastic dive off my fork and straight down my best white shirt. Luckily we have a bunch of (horrifically ugly) department shirts in our supply room so I found the smallest one I could and made the switch…and then doubled over laughing in the closet. I dashed to Susie’s office to show off the marvelous sight of this “small” shirt ending somewhere around my knees, the sleeves of which extended long over my finger tips with armholes that take up half of my rib cage.
I had to tuck what feels like a couple yards of fabric into my trousers, which needless to says feels unbecomingly bulky, and roll the sleeves up three times to get them to just below my elbows. I look like I’m having an illicit affair with a police dispatcher and had to sneak out in his shirt this morning!