One Blouse Can Only Dream

You lay on a false body– one that is displayed in the center of a decorated window for the purpose of selling you. People stare and judge you as they stroll down the street. All you want is to be loved and treasured like the rest of your friends, who were made just like you– designed, admired, bought, and then worn a few times just to sit in the black of a musty closet reeking of mothballs for a few too many years. But you are superior to your friends, because you are unique. You are stitched by the hands of a broken mother, who is exhausted from her painstaking and meticulous routine in the sweatshops of India. You are an elegant embroidered blouse, that is one of a kind in every way: flowy, cotton, and white, pink, and blue. One day, a young girl, about the age of twenty, walks in, and you catch her eye. She walks over to you and grazes her hand over your colorful stitching, enamored by your vibrant colors, and then reaches for your tag. She whispers to herself, 

“One hundred and twenty dollars? Pshhh. Why are clothes so expensive these days?”

She walks away from you, leaving you feeling hopeless and worthless since you have been sitting idly on the cold, heartless plastic body for two weeks now. You hated the long-days of watching people reject you. You thought you would never be enough. The girl with the blonde wavy hair continues to browse the store by walking around and giving the other articles of clothing the same undue confidence that she gave you, and you watch her attentively as she does so. But then, you feel the clerk Jessie free you from the stiffness of being on a mannequin– you are going home! This feeling is freeing, liberating, it is indescribable: freedom at last. You are placed in a bag and driven home. Once you arrive home, you are situated onto a hanger– which is so much more comfortable than being stretched on a plastic body. You never have to sit in a windowsill as the sun bleaches the vibrant colors out of you again. 

You are placed into the front of the closet, with hundreds of other shirts and blouses just like you: you are one of many. It smells similar to mothballs and fresh-pressed laundry, but you don’t complain because you were exhausted from the smell of the pumpkin-spice candle that Jessie burned in the store every day. The perfumes were absolutely sickening, and you were beginning to smell like a fake bouquet of flowers. 

Then, finally, your day of glory arrives. You are finally showcased to the world. You stride out the front door to a bright sunny day, and you absorb the rays of the sun and capture them in your fluorescent pink and blue embroidery. You go to work and stare at a computer for five hours, then you go to lunch and catch some bread crumbs and a little bit of mayo sauce. Each meal time is a war-zone: condiments and food are splattered everywhere. Then, you go home, and you are stripped off. You go back onto the hanger, where you wait for another day like today. Then, a few days pass by, and the girl with the blonde wavy hair only looks at you a few times. She wears you that Saturday at an outing with her friends, where she spills a little bit of beer on you that is cold and smelly. After five times of going out and seeing the world, you notice that the girl with the blonde wavy hair has stopped glancing at you in the closet. Over time, you have been consistently shoved back deeper and deeper into the dark hole of neglected clothes. It is mustier back there, and not much light peaks through. You know that the red blouse next to you and the black skirt on the other side both have not been worn in weeks. You finally realize that your period of eminence is over, and you are now just another neglected article of clothing or castaway that bathes in its glory for the first five wears, and then is laid to rest in the back of the closet, never to be seen or worn again.

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