Black Fuzz


Last weekend I swung by the mall to retrieve a black American Apparel V-neck tee shirt that was lost/stolen/ruined somewhere in the process of moving away from NYC so long ago. After wearing it the next day to the gym, I came home to find black fuzz stuck all over my chest. This scene is wildly familiar.

The summer after my sophomore year of college I was strapped up to a heart monitor with wire nodes. This testing was the result of an unprecedented event that involved me being out cold in the bathroom, but that’s another story for another day. I was mortified to have to wear this pack around my waist with three wiry extensions that connected to my skin with stickers more powerful than a 3M wall mount. One went underneath my heart, the other two were equidistant, framing the middle section of my sternum. I was supposed to wear it for 2 months straight, and only ended up with the patience for about two weeks. After all, I only had so many freeform tops to wear that would hide the contraption during my part time job with Nordstrom.
While at work one day, I experienced a scene out a movie. I caught eyes with a young man coming up the escalator. He walked by my counter and almost tripped. He said hello and walked away. I ran into him hours later and felt frazzled. He was cute. As I went to clock out for the night, we almost killed each other in the doorframe. He was coming towards me at lighting speed as I was busting a move out of there. I found out later he was coming to ask for my number. Somehow he got it and we can fast forward to him pulling into my driveway.
When you get asked out on a date and you work at a fashion-house retailer, you buy a new outfit. I remember it vividly…a fitted racerback black tank top and jeans. After a long shower and de-noding process, I was sitting pretty waiting to meet this guy I barely knew. We went out for dinner and had a great time (this is always how these things start). He was charming and I was so distracted we didn’t leave the table for three hours. Finally, I got up to use the restroom. When I hurriedly washed my hands, I glanced in the mirror. To my horror, the sticky node sticker patches had been too tough to completely wash off. Instead, my unwashed black tank top had unleashed its lint on my body and had decided to collaboratively stick perfectly to two circles on my mid-sternum.
I do a little reality check. Yes, I have been dining for three hours with two black fuzzy circles on my chest. I was not planning on explaining my berserk health experiments on a first date. When I returned, embarrassed, he insisted he really hadn’t seen the spots. Right.

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