After a fruitful trip to Goodwill last week, I sent a couple sweaters to the dry cleaners. See me, I’d probably just wear the sweater straight out of the bag. Is that gross? The Husband thinks so, but he also finds my Goodwill fanaticism a little, well, embarrassing. It’s the circle of life, I tell him. I buy clothes from Goodwill. I wear clothes and then donate them to Miracle Hill. It’s a win for all. And it makes me feel good. To clothe my child this winter for $60 total? Yes, please.
I’m sorry, I totally felt the need to justify my Goodwill shopping. I don’t know why I did that. It’s way better than, say, using the CoinStar® machine. That shit is mortifying. It’s like, “I need money now and no, I can’t wait to roll my quarters and take them to the bank.”
So I have my sweaters dry cleaned. They come back, nice and neat and on padded hangers. I threw on some jeans, a white camisole and this red sweater. Not a spectacular outfit but it was also Monday, a day normally reserved for ratty jeans and long-sleeved t-shirts. I was way ahead of my game. Driving to work, I’m in an awesome mood, and then I see it. A strange, disconcerting stain that survived the dry cleaning chemical assault: