I'm sitting here looking at this shirt, trying to figure out whether to keep, sell, or toss it.
It fits beautifully, everywhere except the bust. The buttons are obviously being strained to the limits of the thread holding them on. I need maybe a quarter of an inch more fabric to make it fit perfectly. It's not even like I have big, hard to fit boobs. They're really kind of average, which is fine with me. It's just that years and years of pulling miles and miles of cable across large venues has given me some muscles through my shoulders, torso, and back. This means that a shirt that actually fits my waist usually doesn't fit my chest, and almost never fits my arms.
This silk shirt somehow has enough stretch in the arms that they don't feel restricted. This shirt fits perfectly in the waist. The colors and pattern are beautiful.
I love the shirt, yet I don't wear it because I know that I am not comfortable with any of the solutions I have tried. I have tried layering different camisoles under it and jackets or sweaters over it. I still feel fidgety, because I know that those two buttons over my chest are gapped up a little bit. Even if nobody else can see it, I know the problem exists. So I don't wear this shirt that I actually bought brand new and have worn exactly twice (or is it three times) in the seven months and counting that I have had it. Which is a shame, because it is really pretty. It just looks luxurious. It also goes with lots and lots of other things in my closet.
As I sat here pondering this shirt's fate, I heard a voice.
This voice was much like a newcomer's in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting filled with old-timers who have all this experience in recovery. The newcomer usually speaks quietly, timidly, often with a tremor in his/her voice. For me, it was fear, it was intimidation of all that clean time in the room, it was insecurity; I am sure I sounded like a mouse as a newcomer. The old-timers don't have that uncertain quality to their voices when they share; even in times of crisis when we are pissed or snot-slinging sad, we speak out and we speak up. Yes, old-timers do have moments of crisis. Loved ones die, we lose jobs, people hurt our feelings, shit happens. While clean time does speak for itself, I also know that sometimes, those of us who have been around for a few cups of coffee? Have a tendency to really complicate the shit out of everything. The newcomer generally keeps it really simple: "if I don't pick it up, I can't get high on it", "one day at a time", shit like that.
So here I am, a few cups of coffee into my day, complicating the shit out of what to do with this shirt, when I hear that voice; that quiet, almost shaky voice that is speaking the simplest truth.
What did the voice say?
"dumbass, you could just move the buttons."
Seriously, who would notice that two buttons have been moved a tiny bit?
Sometimes, us old-timers need to remember that what worked for us in the beginning still works for us today; so "if it ain't broke, don't fucking try to fix it". Keep it simple, stupid. Just move the damned buttons.