Forever in Blue Jeans

For years we've made fun of my dad because of his clothes. Not what he wears (although the never-ending lineage of sweatpants is quite amusing) but how long he wears 'em. He hangs onto a shirt, wearing it fairly regularly and out in public, until it is just seconds from turning into dust. All someone would have to do is sneeze nearby and *POOF*--nekkid. He owned one t-shirt for so long and it got worn so thin in the chest-area that you could literally make out a nipple through the stretched and tired fabric that was desperately trying to hold itself together on the front. The front breast-pocket area of that shirt was like a spider-web with a little nipple crawling around on the underside of it. His sweatpants meet a similar demise. They limp around until the holes in the ass or the knees just become too much and my dad finally has to give in.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, you know how they say "you will grow up to be your parents?" You guessed it--I'm turning into my father.

Just a month or so ago, I was flipping through high school photos and stumbled across a picture of me wearing a shirt that I still currently wear on a regular basis--at least 2-5 times a month (I'm second from the left)... (if that link doesn't work, try here instead b/c it's kinda being moody...)

This picture was taken in what I think was my sophomore year of high school. This means that the shirt is... about 11 years old. (My god, in fact it may actually be older than our family dog!) Not to mention the fact that I BOUGHT it used at a thrift shop, so tack on at least another potential year. It is also probably my oldest clothing item. (Though for a while I was still holding onto a noteworthy pair of black and white stretch pants that had little pictures of the globe--with deformed-looking continents--all over them and which for some reason right now make me think of Jesus Jones. But no longer.)

The eleven-year old shirt immortalized above is a blue, collared, polyester button-down shirt with cutie little shoulder-buttony random flaps of material. The side-seams are freckled with tiny holes where the thread decided that it had been long enough and just gave up. I've sewed up the side-seams at least twice and never with matching thread. One of its front buttons went on to a better place a couple years ago. Just last week, one of the buttons for the shoulder flaps finally offed itself and I was forced to reattach the nervous flap with a safety pin. The collar--I don't even know what's up with that anymore. It just sorta *POOFS* inappropriately.

I get the occasional "perhaps it's time for a new shirt" comment. When I do, I think of my dad and how I'm starting to understand him a bit more--as though we've actually bonded b/c of clothing or something.

I mean, at some point in life, you start to forget how other people perceive you. Maybe not "forget" so much as "not care anymore." You start to value more important things, think only of comfort and latch on to certain things that make you feel loved and warm and happy. You think of how they've been there with you through it all, how they serve as reminders of cross-country trips, puberty. Of how many times they've been tossed onto the floor by some eager lover. How many times you've hugged your dog in them and been left with a thick coating of reddish-blond hair in return. What friends have seen you spill wine all over them while laughing joyously in their presence.

Fuck the comments. Fuck the fact that it's not quite as perky and new as it used to be. Fuck "appropriate workplace attire." Fuck THE GAP and OLD NAVY. Fuck the fashion police.

My shirt sings of longevity; it serves as a reminder to stand in resistance against this fast-paced mortal world!

(Reminder to self: pick up some more Febreze.)

"This shirt is just an old faded piece of cotton
Shining like the memories
Inside those silver buttons"

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