There’s
a picture of me with my sisters, getting ready to set off on a
family vacation, from roughly forty years ago. In it, I’m wearing
the appropriate summer clothes… a t-shirt, shorts, and white tube
socks pulled up to just below my knees.
I
can close my eyes right now and visualize the image. I can see
one arm over my sister’s shoulders and the other extended out
into the air. I can tell you which way the bus in the background
is facing. I know there’s a flagpole in the distance.
Those
childhood days of picking out clothes… whenever I had a choice…
were based on colors and schools and teams involved. And for some
reason, so many of them are clothes that I wouldn’t need photographs
to remember.
Picture
in my office. Taken in Disney World. My wife has on a sweatshirt
that I know I bought for her. I have zero connection to the shirt
I’m wearing. No memory of owning it.
Ok,
I get it. We all have our preferences. And as the years pass,
our tastes swirl around and styles for the public change. And
even so, I’m not all that different when picking out a sweater
or shirt when it comes to the colors and patterns that appeal
to me.
But
here’s where it gets a bit tricky. Yeah… sure… we all have our
favorites. Still…
For
years, I’ve done most of the ironing for Terry and I. She’ll put
out some clothes, and I’ll get to work, and many of them click.
There are certain suits that she tends to match up with one or
two very specific shirts. There are some clothes she wears more
often than others. If she asked me to grab a suit for her to wear
for work, I could put together a complete set just because I know
she wears this with that. If I needed to pack for her, I could
break out a suitcase and fill most of it with clothes I know she
prefers because they’re the ones she tends to go to. And then…
Then
there are the clothes that she’s had for years, but when I start
ironing, I’m trying to figure out if it’s something new she’s
just bought. And it’s confusing—mainly confusing because often
there really isn’t much to do but daydream and wonder about unimportant
things while you’re ironing—because I know she hasn’t been shopping
for these types of clothes any time recently, and maybe the shirt
seems a little familiar (but maybe it doesn’t).
Terry
laughs at me because I have sweatshirts with massive tears in
them, and I wear them all the time. These sweatshirts represent
the types of things that she claims will force her to refuse to
stand near me in public if I put them on for anything other than
wearing them around the house.
I
suppose she’s not wrong. I do have clothes that I have dedicated
for certain things, such as yardwork or painting. And those torn
sweatshirts are things I wear because: (1) I like them, and, (2)
it’s cold and I don’t want to turn the heat up in the house. All
this and more means she doesn’t have to worry about me grabbing
them for an evening out with friends at a decent restaurant. We’re
good there.
But
I’m also not about to toss those sweatshirts. Breaking them out
to wear is almost the equivalent of putting on a hug. (Almost.)
In
many cases, it’s that hug mentality that creates the clothes I
remember the most. I’m not focused too greatly on fashion, so
the clothes I tend to favor in my closets are just the ones that
fit in a way that feels comfortable, have a look that I appreciate,
or in some way defies more of a description than simply saying
I like what I like. If it’s an old pair of sneakers and a pair
of jeans, Terry is just going to have to deal with it.
(Not
that I’d make that choice if she’s going to be around. I talk
big. I’m not stupid.)