I had this wife beater. I was in my early twenties when I bought it. This shirt was so soft that I could almost feel it melt every time I put it on.
I had that shirt for over 20 years. I wore it until it was so threadbare that it was nearly transparent and it had to become a nightshirt. Then around 5 years ago, it sprouted holes and it was time to say goodbye.
I thought about my wife beater (which really..is a terrible fucking name..let’s come up with something else. How about “Barely appropriate T-shirts ribbed for her pleasure?). I thought about how much I missed that shirt.
I thought about my BATSRFHP shirt because I recently had to part with another piece of clothing. I had to get rid of my Nightmare Before Christmas pajama bottoms. The material clung to the elastic waistband by a few threads. The torn parts hung low giving the appearance that I wore some sort of disheveled loin cloth designed by Tim Burton.
The time had come to let them go. I was going to say “let them go with dignity”, but that ship sailed a couple years ago.
It occurred to me, that out of all the money I have spent over the years on clothing, the one item that I would miss was a threadbare t-shirt. Well, and a pair of pajama bottoms that made the list like 16 hours ago.
This made me think again about our plan to downsize. As of yet, the plan is still in the cerebral stage. I’m still planning. For instance, I have planned every night for over a month now to start boxing things up for a yard sale next spring. What I’ve accomplished is watching Netflix.
What trinkets or furniture would I miss 10 years from now if I no longer owned them? Not very fucking much, actually.
Randy and I are alike in that we don’t care much for the stuff we have. Not in a “We’d be happier with different stuff” way, but in a “we don’t care because we don’t care”.
We care about traveling together. We care about listening to music. We care about spending time with people we love. We care about the time when we are not around other people. We care about sitting outside and acting like children. We also enjoy burning things.
Okay, we enjoy a fire. I swear, we aren’t pyromaniacs.
I’m hoping that by keeping this in mind, I’ll get moving on the actual packing part. I mean, remembering how little we have that has sentimental value, not fire.
I’m going to start with clothes, shoes, and handbags. Time to winnow that shit down. I have some goddamn adorable shoes that I haven’t worn in years.They’re not comfortable. It is dumb to continue to keep them just because they are cute. Time to move on and accept the fact that my remaining years will be spent in shoes that keep my heels very close to the earth.
I can’t think of a single pair of shoes I own that I would miss. Maybe, that pair of flip flops that I’ve had for the past 3 years, but really, I wouldn’t cry over them.
Fucking hell, this reminds me. There is something else I miss. I once had a the perfect pair of slouchy worn cowboy boots. Then cowboy boots became really dweeby for a while and I got rid of them. Damn. Those were some good cowboy boots.
I’ve been stuck in this hazy, weird fog for a while now. I am pretty sure the fog is filled with some poisonous gas or vaporized drug that is causing me to be in a perpetual state of waiting. Waiting for answers, waiting for the weekend. Waiting to move.
I have got to break out of this pattern.
Okay, I mean it this time. Before the sun rises another morning, I will have at least one box packed up and ready for selling.
What should I watch on Netflix next?