Adieu, Mon Ami

I hope I’m not alone in this. Tell me you don’t have a favorite t-shirt somewhere, or maybe a fleece, or an old pair of jeans, that has outlived its expiration date by, let’s say, 15 years. You know what I’m talking about. Clothing that’s so old it not only looks weathered, but it knows your history; it knows your secrets. It is almost holy in its rankings among your belongings. You put these garments in the laundry and you dearly hope they survive the spin cycle. Why you keep them is obvious. They feel great. They conform to your body in a way that reflects that they are practically human. They know you, right? So what if they are a bit torn, a bit weathered, a tad faded. They are your friends. They understand.

So, when it comes to parting with them you feel a sense of loss that is wholly out of touch with reality; totally out of line with “normal” expectations. They have become a part of you, and tossing them away is akin to tossing away a loved one, sort of. They deserve a fitting burial, no?

This tragic moment happened to me this weekend when I ever-so-reluctantly parted with a t-shirt I loved. It was one I picked up in New Zealand 14 years ago when we were traveling there with Jesse and Alex. It was a muted peach in color -- or at least it became muted after its 4,000th washing in 2003. Over time it became beatifically soft as only a bit of clothing that lasts so long can become. On its back it touted A.J. Hackett Bungee Jumping, an outfit that was responsible for Jesse’s leap into thin air at the tender age of 13 off the Kuwara Bridge outside of Queenstown, New Zealand. A leap that launched an adventurous and -- some would say -- fearless attitude toward life that has suited him well over the past decade. Some would say too well, but that’s another story.

And so, when I realized that its threadbare leavings were not up to yet another spin cycle, I made the terrible judgment that its expiration date -- long overdue -- had actually arrived. Life support was no longer an option. The shirt was now semi-transparent and was deserving of a fitting adieu. I touched it with a sensitivity I likely had never before managed; the kind you would experience maybe with a loved one with whom it was time to say good-bye.

I will get over this, of course. But, don’t tell me there aren’t memories embedded in that t-shirt’s weave. Don’t tell me there isn’t something more important here than discarding your every day piece of trash. I won’t hear of it.

Treasure your old garments. They know you as few do.