I have some clothes that I hate, but I seem never to be able to get rid of them. Yes, they’re still wearable and could be donated to a worthy cause, but I never seem to get around to doing that. They still hang in my closet and I detest them every time I see them and threaten them with the thrift store or, in darker moments, the dumpster, but to no avail. I still have them, but I wear them when I’m in a bad mood already. Whenever I put them on I say to myself, “What was I thinking???” but I shrug and wear them anyway.
One is a basic blue polo shirt. Now, polo shirts look good on many people, but I don’t like them for myself and this one doesn’t flatter me. I wear it when I hope something will happen to it to justify my throwing it away. I wore it recently when I had some oral surgery done, telling my dentist, “I wore this shirt today because I hate it, and if you get something on it, it won’t matter to me.” She chuckled at that, but unfortunately nothing happened during the procedure to stain it. I used to wear it in Florida on days when I had to put gasoline in the car, hoping some gas would splash on it. I wear it when I know I’m going to go somewhere to eat something I notoriously drop on myself, like spaghetti sauce or taco filling. But it keeps right on resisting my efforts to defile it. Stubborn shirt!
Another is an awful, mustard-colored short cotton knit nightgown I ordered at a bargain-basement price years ago. It looked like a cheery buttercup yellow in the catalog! It’s comfy, but the color, now faded to sort of an anemic shade of Dijon mustard, is worse than ever. I wore it in Florida and promised myself when I got to Oregon I’d never wear that thing again, but it still hangs there in the closet, and I wear it on nights too warm to wear anything else, hating every minute of it while I have it on. It looks sallow, it makes me look sallow, and its only saving grace is that it’s worn in the dark. Not that anyone would see it, but even in the dark I know I have it on, and I fume that I’m still wearing it.
And then there are the black flats I bought about a year ago. I needed a pair quickly to complete an outfit, and these seemed to fill the bill at the time; however, I just don’t seem to have the right kind of feet for them. My daughter, who previously worked at the shoe store, informed me that it was a very popular style and they’d sold lots of pairs. I had to admit they were cute, but the toe box presses down and then turns up a bit at the end, and I didn’t notice how uncomfortable they were at first. I’ve only worn them a few times, to my lasting regret for several days after each wearing. Now I wear them only when I’m not going to be standing for more than 15 minutes or walking more than 200 feet. Which is practically never. So I glare at them when I see them in the closet, wishing I’d taken time to purchase a more comfortable pair of shoes. I should donate them to a thrift shop, too, but there they sit.
Well, maybe this blog post has been cathartic. Maybe now that I’ve faced up to hating these items, I can give them away or throw them away at last. The shirt and the shoes could certainly do someone else some good. Maybe I’ll do that today. Maybe…nah…