You were waiting for me last Sunday at work. You needed a good ironing and to find a new home.
Folded, I couldn't tell how special you were. How special you are. I could see that you were green and I am partial to green.
Later, I plugged in the iron and got to work. You were gorgeous. A lovely print, lace pockets and collar. You are probably in your seventies and do show signs of a life well lived, a well loved life. Someone worked hard to extend your life, determined to wear you until she couldn't any longer. You still look good and those markings of age tell the story of a good life.
I remember when my Grandma showed me to mend and darn. At the time it seemed silly. In college, I mended my first pair of beloved blue jeans. I still have them, folded in a box. Not because I think I'd ever wear them again but because my mending is messy and beautiful. I wore those jeans until I couldn't anymore. I'm pretty sure that someone would know that by looking at them, just like I knew about you.
As I ironed you, I examined every inch. I let out tiny gasps as I came across tiny stitches, holding you together. Your wabi sabi beauty made me smile. I am smitten. If only you were bigger. Alas, you are destined for another. I just hope I'm there when someone with the right waist size falls in love with you.