I was putting away laundry the other day and discovered a hole in one of my socks. I get that nothing lasts forever – circle of life and all that jazz – but this always causes me great distress. I don’t mean to be dramatic, but it feels like a death in the family. Especially when it’s a favorite pair, as these Smartwools were.
Were. Past tense. I’m getting choked up all over again.
I was so distraught, I bombarded Tara with the bad news the moment she walked through the door. “I lost a sock today,” I told her mournfully, the newly perforated stocking dangling limply from my hand like a dead fish.
“Shall we observe a moment of silence?” she asked.
Haha. It’s not like I was going to bury it in the backyard! In that moment, I had an epiphany: my wife does not form personal attachments to clothing like I do.
It’s not just socks. I have mourned frayed t-shirts and boxer shorts so long, I’ve worn them way past their expiration dates, to the point where they are so threadbare the only thing holding them together is a wing and a prayer. And I’m not the churchgoing type, so their grip on mortality is even more tenuous.
Many years ago, I picked up a novelty t-shirt from Target. Some silly-ass thing with a barista frog slinging lattes at a fictional 24-hour coffee shop. But there was just something about that shirt that I loved. Maybe it was the color or the graphics. It fit perfectly, felt comfortable. Whatever the reason, I was so enamored, it was a regular part of my wardrobe until it practically disintegrated.
Tara broke the bad news to me one day.
“Sweetie,” she said. “I know how attached you are to your mocha-making frog. But it looks like he’s about to croak.”
She was right. Clearly, my shirt was no longer wearable, not even around the house. Relegating articles of clothing to specialized tasks like yard work or washing the car is sort of the apparel equivalent to human retirement; they don’t do the same jobs they used to, but may still be seen puttering around the house, showing up for chores and whatnot.
And then there is the final, most inglorious stage of all: when these once-beloved companions are converted to rags used for (gulp!) scrubbing the toilet. Once that happens, their days are numbered. It’s like putting them into hospice care.
I refused to let this fate befall my Java Junkies t-shirt, so I folded it up neatly and placed it in a hope chest – alongside cherished mementoes like wedding photos, greeting cards marking special occasions, and Rusty’s baby book – for all eternity.
I’ll be damned if that doesn’t look like a coffin.
While writing this post, I exhumed my shirt for the first time in years. I figured, without visual evidence, y’all might think I was making this whole story up. Surely, nobody is crazy enough to save a ratty old t-shirt, right?
Wrong.
Pardon the wrinkles, but this thing no longer sees the light of day, let alone an iron. Once a magnificent shade of green, it’s now deeply faded, almost grey. Want further evidence of how long I wore it? Check out the collar. The hems of both sleeves are just as worn.
Seeing again just how bad off the shirt is, I’m a little embarrassed I wore it as long as I did. But it’s hard to let a loved one go, to send them to the great laundromat in the sky, even when it’s clearly time.
RIP, Java Junkies frog. You may no longer be “open all nite” as your faded sign proclaims, but you will forever hold a place in my heart.
Do you get upset when you have to toss a pair of socks? Is there a favorite clothing item you kept after it was no longer wearable? Am I insane?
Mark My Words 
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