Cotton picking

The first apartment I rented was during my junior year in college. The complex was close enough to school, only an enormous field of cotton between our place and the north edge of campus. I'd at times pull over to the side of the road on my way home and pick the prickly white boles, placing them in vases around our apartment as decoration. As it was, my roommate's last name was Cotton. During that time, and since West Texas is a key agricultural area, there was a television campaign for the cotton industry with the tag line, America's picking cotton. Her boyfriend often used the line on her as a form of endearment, never failing to get a smile out of her.

I've always preferred cotton to other fabrics and not just because the fields are hypnotic or my the connection through my first roommate. I like the way it feels on my skin, and many times have reached out to touch some item of clothing I wanted, only to realize it was not cotton but some other fabric that touching just with my fingertips makes my skin on the rest of my body scream NO! So when I was in a store on Saturday and heard this conversation, I admit to being slack-jawed.

Lady 1: I like this top.

Lady 2: Hmmmm, what it's made of?

Lade 1: Cotton and spandex blend.

Lady 2: Hmmmm, no. I never like to stray too far from polyester.

I stood still thinking about that. Stray too far? For what, safety? And then I thought about my college roommate and heard her boyfriend say America's picking cotton, and thought, Well, not all of us.