clothes have feelings

Feelings

My brother and I hold the same secret belief: clothes have feelings. I found out by watching him rotate his set of old shirts that his wife had not yet thrown out, and I knew. He felt sorry for the clothes at the bottom of the drawer or in the back corner of the closet, that had been hoping to be chosen, and he tries to be fair to them all. Just like we want to make sure each of our children have the same amount of time alone with us, we have to also consider the needs of sweatshirt that got us through a long soccer game, or kept us warm when we had the flu. My blue sequined top from the 70’s, that I have not been able to think of an occasion to wear for decades, breaks my heart as she (clothes have gender too) sits there expectantly each morning, waiting for that shaft of light that gives her hope that maybe today is the day her owner will choose to wear a sparkly butterfly patterned top to work.

This makes it seem like giving up your child for adoption when you give clothing away. Turning threadbare underwear into rags is not an option for those of us who suffer from the Clothing Empathy Syndrome. I ended up with a fire hazard in my basement as I gradually relegated all neglected clothes to the “costume closet”, silently (I don’t actually speak out loud to them; they can read my mind) promising each one they had been elevated to a higher status, and fully believing myself they would be on stage someday. As soon as I was asked to do costumes for Rent, my torn jeans would have a stint in the limelight, and next time I needed angel costumes for the Sunday school play, all the nightgowns and stained white blouses would have new lives. It got to the point where the oil man could not find the furnace, so I moved them over to the school costume closet, thinking words of encouragement to them about their glorious futures ahead.

I knew it wasn’t healthy to keep size 18 dresses when I had maintained a size 8 for a year, but you know how sensitive fat clothes are. So I made a pile of big pants by the sewing machine and invited them to come along to my new thin life with me, as I attempted to take in the seams. I faked enthusiasm as I tried them on in the mirror and realized I could never get the inseams to not bunch up, and finally moved them to the dreaded thrift shop, contractor size, black (lets not say trash) bag. It is always a sad day when I drop off those bags, feeling as though I let my friends down, but I try to use my imagination about them finding new, happy homes. I see clearly in my mind an unsuspecting middle age woman on a budget spotting my old flowered cotton frock, and leaping for joy when she sees it’s size 16!

I know children believe everything around them is alive, like stuffed animals and pencil sharpeners. I know this from reading child development books and watching kids play with newspaper, or making sound effect while they move blocks around the floor. I know that babies think keys are tinkling fairies if you shake them before their eyes. My mother says that I named all my dresses when I was young, and yes, I do miss old Rosebud dress and faithful Play pants. Scratchy Cat coat, not so much.

I guess my brother and I missed a developmental stage and kept on thinking our shoes under the bed were talking to each other while we slept. In my drawing classes, we sometimes do portraits of old running shoes, and don’t tell me they have no stories to tell! My high heeled gold pumps don’t mind that I only wear them once a year on Christmas eve, since they need their beauty sleep, but I do have to be careful to give equal time to my black clogs and brown suede walking shoes. I don’t want them duking it out in the hall closet while I try to cook dinner.

My sister in law doesn’t understand the “disease” my brother suffers from, and feels no compunction about replacing his work shirts and chinos on a regular basis without asking. She thinks she is helping him. I’d suggest to her that she enter a twelve step program for those who are married to people with this problem, so she could help him more effectively, but since that doesn’t exist yet, to my knowledge, I stay silent. Perhaps by example I can show her how to be considerate to all one’s clothing, without actually having to say to her, kindly, “Wow, I haven’t seen your yellow cardigan for a while, how is she (oops, it) doing?” If I get to that point and she stares at me quizzically, I will quickly change the subject and wait until she has time to consider that question during a meditation session, and sees the light.


Traveling is hard, since carry on luggage is so small, and all my clothes know about the temptations of foreign flea markets and ethnic boutiques. They fear I may return with a flowered muumuu or woven poncho that will be my favorite for a while. They do their best to keep me warm and elicit compliments, when they have their day on display, but know that a random splash of cranberry juice or harsh florescent lights near a mirror can send them to solitary confinement indefinitely. That’s why it’s so important for me to try to be impartial when I choose my outfits. On good days, I change three or four times just to keep their spirits up. As much as I want to wear the same, hardly dirty, jeans two days in a row, since they always fit better the second day after washing, I make myself wear the brown cords. I try to keep my thoughts to myself when I feel passion for my purple cashmere sweater, knowing he is the one who will have to pay the price for the others’ jealousy while I am at work.

I hope I die before Karl, my brother. I don’t want to be the only one left on earth that knows these secrets. If there are others out there like myself, please, let yourselves be known. We can start a twelve-step group on line.