When I was a kid, one of my favorite books was about the magic buttons of certain buttons when used correctly. Since then, I’ve read about the magical powers of the invisibility cloak in JK Rowling’s Harry Potter series, but I’ve never actually encountered any magical pieces of clothing or buttons. Until last weekend, that is.
I went on a short trip out of town. When I returned from my trip and found myself standing in front of a mirror, I noticed that the faux fur collar of my beige jacket had turned orange. Let me clarify that, the left side of my faux fur collar had turned orange and I had no idea how it happened.
I did what anyone else would do when confronted with a similar situation; I sniffed for bleach. I couldn’t smell any. I smelled again, but didn’t smell any bleach or any other clothing dyes for that matter. It was just an ugly shade of orange and there was nothing I could do about it.
Obviously, the collar was magical and had dyed itself because no one around me was admitting to spilling any chemicals on it and I hadn’t washed it yet.
Enter item number two. Which isn’t nearly quite as magical as the case of the orange collar: my jeans ripped in the washing machine. Unfortunately, there are more logical explanations for this than the other: the washing machine is old and hard on clothes, I accidentally poured too much cheap laundry soap to wash the clothes, and the jeans were worn from a long motorcycle trip I’d taken a couple of years ago.
So, although there is a logical explanation for the ripped jeans—unfortunate because they are one of my favorite pairs—I can’t think of any possible logical explanation for the orange collar on my jacket. If this were a TV show, I would be able to call someone to investigate the possibility of a mischievous poltergeist living in my apartment, but I live in the real world, in a real apartment, and in a city where ghost sightings are not looked upon all that favorably.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had a mysterious alteration to a piece of clothing; when I was in class one time, my then-favorite jeans ripped in the bottom, though there weren’t any nails on my chair. (It should be noted that the jeans were slightly baggy in the butt region, so it’s unlikely that the jeans were ripped because of my butt.) Another time, I opened a piece of luggage after an international trip and found a ripped shirt and a DVD for the TV series Witchblade—that can probably be attributed to a stoned baggage handler rather than a creative poltergeist, but again, I have to question the motives of the baggage handler and wonder what the "f" he was trying to pull.
Have you ever had any strange clothing karma?