#wizard shirts

[shelbylookshuman]

I have the purrfect spell for this! 

Available on products at lookhuman! 

[carliebecareful-blog]

Ed Sheeran and the Magic Shirt

Okay so it's been a long time since I've posted here. That procrastination snowballed into further excuses as to why posting wasn't a possibility. I think it took a Friday night like the one I just had to break the silent spell. It's one for the books.

Before I continue with that story, I'm going to have to tell you this story:

Two Fridays prior I was out with my roommate Oli and a couple other interns. We were lingering in a bar that was close to closing, polishing off a pitcher of sangria and making small talk. Oli pointed out to me that someone had left a shirt on the bar. We laughed and moved on. Or at least I did. It was a men's button down; whether that makes it more or less peculiar I'm not sure. As the evening(morning) drizzled on and we made our way for the door, nobody had come to claim this shirt. "I'm taking this blouse!" Oli said.

"It's not a blouse, it's a shirt." I said, "Just leave it, it reeks of cheap cologne." Words fell on deaf ears as the shirt was stuffed in her bag. "It's a nice blouse!" She was right, really, it looked far too expensive a shirt to be tossed aside on some bar. I didn't argue the petty theft because I didn't care enough, and we made our way home.

So my last weekend in town is around the corner, and Oli of course is scheduled to skip town for Sydney. My other roommates, as well, had planned a separate trip starting early Sunday morning. Well that's just great, last weekend: not with a bang but a wimper. 

Oli tried to shed light on the situation. "You're going to have a great weekend, I can feel it! You have to wear that blouse!" 

"It's not a blouse, it's a shirt, and I'm not wearing it, that's gross." 

"Just wear it! Good things will happen! It's a magic blouse I know it! You have to wear it!" The wisdom of a departing friend, how inspirational.

So she left, and I spent the last hours of the afternoon doing laundry in a quiet flat. Peeling various articles of clothing off my room floor my eyes found the "blouse" laying rumpled in Oli's corner. I threw it in the basket. It still smelled like a vat of cologne, might as well wash it for her.

Seeing as there was now far too much room in the flat for thoughts, I took the precaution of making my way to the harbor before things got depressing. Again, I saw the shirt, rippling on the drying line. I paused long enough to convince myself it'd be kind of funny just to wear it. 

It really is a nice shirt, well made, good color. I rolled the sleeves four times and left it unbuttoned. It hung just below my shorts, fitting more like a smock, but what the hell.

Lovely summer dusk, everyone out and about with friends, celebrating the end of another work week. I wandered aimlessly down Courtenay Street, making a right onto the harbor, and into a nameless square.

There was a mob of people lined up to pack themselves into the event arena. Intriguing. I asked one of the invididuals clutching paper tickets what it was all about. "Ed Sheeran concert!" Ed Sheeran, damn. I can't pretend I was (or am) at all familiar with anything other than his single "A-Team." Regardless, I thought, that was sure to be good.

I had this excited sensation, a something feeling that couldn't really be placed. I orbited the arena. I always thought it'd be fun to sneak into a concert, and if someone had neglected a side entrance, I could passively make my way in. Nothing to the effect. Yet I hung around, placing myself on a bench to watch the swarm pack itself through the front entrance.

The crowd slowly dissipated, the square quieting. I looked at the harbor, glowing pink, decorated with the white sails of casual boaters. I thought to stroll back to the waterfront, but again I had this tugging sensation that I was right where I needed to be, if I just hung around for a moment, just a moment. I peeked over at the front door. No one was leaving that unattended. I made fun of myself for sitting on this dumb sticky bench in this stupid big shirt, watching happy people fulfill their fun Friday plans. No matter how I berated myself I just sat on that bench, some part of me still convinced that it was the place to be.

I was looking down at my journal when noticed out of the corner of my eye someone walking towards me. I didn't feel the need to look up until the person addressed me. 

"Are you going to the Ed Sheeran concert?" I looked up at the middle-aged man whom the voice belonged to.

I thought for a moment. "Not that I had planned." 

He sat down next to me. "I have these two tickets, and I'm not going to be able to go. I can sell to you- if you're interested -sixty bucks a piece." 

My guard was up. "Yeah? How do I know these aren't copies?"

"I'll walk right up to the door with you, and you can pay me after you get through."

Alright, seemed legitimate. "I can honestly tell you I don't have sixty dollars." I pulled out the contents of my wallet. "I have thirteen dollars to my name. But believe me, if I had sixty dollars to drop on a piece of paper, I would, so fast."

He laughed. "My wife is too sick to go, she's sitting in the car," Didn't buy it, definitely just a scalper, but I let him continue nonetheless. "The tickets were originally ninety, you see, so it's a really good deal."

"Hey, it's a great deal!" I said, "Don't get me wrong, I just don't have that money. But seriously, man, good luck to you. I bet there are a hundred girls hanging around this square waiting to buy tickets, I'm sure you won't have a problem selling them. You happened to approach the poorest sad sack in this city. I'm Carlie."

He laughed again. He didn't seem at all shifty, for a scalper. "I'm Damien. Well, Carlie, if I can't sell these tickets my wife might just say forget it and pitch 'em," 

"Well you know where I'll be." And with that he got up.

I continued writing, occasionally glancing around to see Damien wandering the square, looking around. Maybe the story wasn't a lie. After a while I didn't see him anymore, figuring he probably sold the tickets. Good for him. I had a pang of regret. Maybe I should have got the money for the ticket. The sun had set now, and only the occasional late comers were still filtering into the arena. 

To this day, I can not figure out why I bothered to hang around there so for long. Something was holding me there, and I'll never understand what. 

"Do you want to go to that concert?" I looked up at the returned Damien in alarmed disbelief. 

"Y-yeah...?"

"Come here and thank my wife."

I leaped, no- I floated off of the bench and flew to where his car was parked. Just as he said, his wife was sitting in the passenger seat. I raced around the front of the car, ripped the door open and invited myself to a bear hug. "THANK YOU, STRANGER." They both laughed, and I ran around and gave Damien the same. 

"Can I offer you anything I mean anything can I give you money can-" 

"Just have a really good time." She said, laughing still. I ran, squeaking with giggles and absolutely delirious with elation and disbelief.

The shirt was magic. The shirt was actual real live magic, it had pulled through. My instincts were dead on. They weren't just stupid half-winged hopes, they were foretelling.

I had a free ticket to a main stage show I'd heard about not an hour before, a magic lucky mystery shirt ("blouse!"), and clearly was some sort of psychic. 

Brilliant.

I was so giddy with delight it took me fifteen minutes of thoughtless pacing to find my seat, just moments before the lights dimmed and Ed came on stage. Oli of course got an excited call that I'm sure she could not interpret, because the story was dictated in a series of shrieks rather than actual words.

The girl sitting next to me overheard my tale (How could she not, the whole section got an earful.) and introduced herself as the second lucky ticket holder. From Maine, funny enough, and here on a study abroad. 

And Ed put on one hell of a show. I mean that was a show. Molly and I followed up with celebratory beers to all the good fortune the night had brought us, including newfound friendship. The bartender came over to our table with little glasses, asking if we'd mind being "unwilling test subjects" for a new cocktail he was trying. (It's the shirt, the shirt is fucking magic.)

So this post goes out to June and Damien, though I'm sure they'll never see it. I wish you could know what you did for me on Friday, I wish I could tell you the whole story. I'm sorry the evening didn't work out in your favor. I hope you have the slightest of understandings that you made some silly (not to mention shoddily dressed) girl's year. I wish you the speediest of recoveries, June, and hope that if you get to see this story it brings you at least thread of contentment.

(Or a button.)