Well here’s a sign I’m getting old. (Other than the fact that while watching The Real World: New Orleans, I said to Y, I‘m an entire kindergartener older than these people!)
Everyone has their favorite t-shirt, right? One that’s so old and threadbare that it practically feels like silk; has so many holes it absolutely cannot, under any circumstances be worn in public. One that any “vintage” shirt from Hollister/American Eagle/Old Navy wishes it could feel like. (You don’t even mind if it starts to fade — that only makes it nicer still.)
My go-to comfy t-shirt is a treasure I found in my mom’s closet. It’s from San Francisco, and since I’ve never been to San Fransisco and my parents rarely traveled without me, I’m going to assume it’s over 26 years old.