i am broken.
or at least my elbows are.
or my shirts.
or me. probably me.
you see, it happened again. a tear in my right elbow. i blame the shirt because that’s easy. then i try to explain it. pointy elbows. overwashing. thin fabric.
i grumble over instant coffee. i IM things like i’m broken. a friend googles my predicament. she gives me a list of reasons i never thought. she says, it happens, buy more shirts.
i mumble and say i’m broken.
this is the fifth shirt, at least, that has torn in this way. usually it’s when i’m stretching. the sleeve gets caught in the crux of my elbow and suddenly i hear it and i cringe and think naughty words. then in hulk-like-fashion i squeeze my forearm to my bicep and revel in the sound of fabric tearing – fibers freeing themselves from each other to relieve the pressure.
i am broken.
there’s something OCD inside me that won’t let me fix these tears. they are not on a seam and the tailor tells me they will look wrong. my friend tells me that no one will notice, no one will ever know.
but i’ll know. i’ll see the tear crudely rectified with the wrong color string. i’ll feel the fear of opening the wound again with just a slight twitch of my elbow.
from google i learn that it’s because of the way my keyboard and desk is positioned. my right elbow, the one that always tears, rubs against my desk surface routinely, every day i wear it. since i only have five shirts, this happens every week and after 45 weeks it is bound to happen. it will tear because no fabric can handle this much abuse.
i am broken.
i don’t notice things falling apart. i don’t notice things breaking, only things that are broken. i can fix what is broken, but noticing and preempting the breaking is hard for me. until it breaks is it really a problem?
it’s not really about the shirt, because a shirt is just a shirt, but it is about something inside me that’s broken. something inside me that doesn’t notice when things are breaking. that doesn’t notice when the trend is angled downward not flat lined or going up. something inside me that accepts things as they are, even if as they are isn’t very good.
maybe it’s time to think about the things that are breaking, that are waiting for that moment when the pressure breaks through via a tear in the fabric and i am forced to look at it for what it is: something broken.
there’s nothing wrong with broken things, it’s the way of humanity, but there’s something wrong with discarding the broken when it can be fixed, isn’t there? maybe i’ll take this shirt to mama and ask her to heal it, ask her to make it whole again, make it fixed.