Black sleeveless H&M women’s shirt, size small.
My mother found a shirt with the above description in her clean laundry yesterday. She asked my sister if if was hers; it wasn’t. She asked me if it was mine; it wasn’t. Where did this mystery shirt come from???
There are so many possibilities. Did somebody implant a tiny stopwatch in the fabric because they wanted to find out how long a grown woman could tolerate watching an episode of America’s Next Top Model: British Invasion? Did they sprinkle klutz-enhancing powder on the tag so they could watch someone dump melted ice cream on herself, drop silverware on the floor, and lose a pretzel rod, all in the span of 30 seconds? Did they hide a microscopic recording device in the collar to discover the resolution to the case of the missing floss?
Whatever the reason, we now had this strange shirt that didn’t belong to anyone. Risking becoming the target of a secret, high-level investigation into which episode of Arrested Development we had left off on, I wore the shirt yesterday. So far, so good. But who knows how much classified information has already been gathered on me and my thrilling life? I’m going to lay low for now and assume the best, but if mystery underwear shows up tomorrow, I’m not touching it.