What to do with a beloved shirt in shreds?
After many years of wearing my favorite denim long-sleeved shirt, I noticed a hole in the elbow. Ah, darn, I mutter to myself. Well, holes be darned, I love this shirt. I’m sure no one will notice.
“You’ve got a hole in your elbow,” my husband says the second he sees me. “You better put a patch or something on it, or it’s going to get worse.” I kindly thank him for his advice – and promptly proceed to ignore it. It’s just a tiny hole – what’s the worst that can happen?
I continue to get ready for my day. I contemplate dusting off the rarely used makeup bag to find some mascara and decide it’s a bit too much work for a day filled with Zoom meetings. I reach for something at the bottom of my closet. Rip. Was that ... I’m sure it’s fine. I stand up and look for something at the top of my closet. Riiiip. Um. I reach for the closet door and slide it shut. Riiiiippp. What’s that breeze? Across the room, my husband starts laughing. I look down at my shirt and see paper-thin scraps of fabric flapping around my arms. It took exactly five minutes for his advice to turn prophetic. “Now you look like a scarecrow,” my husband smiles.
There wasn’t anything special about the day I bought my “scarecrow shirt.” Chambray shirts were all the rage a few years back, and I’d been contemplating adding one to my wardrobe. One day we were meandering through an outlet shopping center and wandered into a Levi’s store. The shirt was on sale, a size too big, but would do just fine.
It was one of those shirts that got more comfortable the more it was worn, slowly becoming soft as butter against my skin. The pale blue color made for an excellent lightweight jacket in the summer. In the fall, I loved that I could throw on a puffy vest and embrace the brisk autumn air with a maple latte. Throughout the cold winters, I would button it all the way up, pair it with some wool socks, and curl up with a book under a cozy blanket. I’d still find myself drawn to the simple shirt come spring, versatile enough to get me through those rainy New England months to eventually welcome the daffodils.
There were warning signs that it was on its last legs, or arms. Some of the buttons were getting a bit loose. And there were those faint splatters of meals enjoyed that hadn’t quite come out in the wash. People weren’t really wearing this style anymore. Perhaps an updated look was in order? But no. This shirt had seen a lot with me: the ups and downs of dating, saying my vows, the birth of my first child. I intended to stay loyal, even as the fabric wore away and each time I wore it felt like it might be my last.
There are few material items in life that gain my loyalty. We’re constantly bombarded with advertisements and calls to action, begging us to try the latest and greatest thing. The so-called fast-fashion industry rushes to produce clothes that fit the latest fad, but in a week those styles are yesterday’s news. Each season has a new hit song, a color of the year, trending TikToks, or viral memes. But there’s something sweet about reaching for what you know, holding tight to that thing you’re just drawn to, long past when logic tells you it might be time to let go. It’s comforting to enjoy these small pleasures and embrace them for the small gift of stability that they are. It may seem like it’s just an item, a piece of clothing, a worn-out shirt. But it also represents a life well lived and the joy of being in your element.
As I inspected my blown-out elbows, I had to laugh out loud. I did look like a scarecrow, with my small frame hanging with tattered rags.
“Is it time to let that one go?” my husband asked.
I paused for a moment, then smiled. I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut the paper-thin fabric right above the rips. Gently, I folded the material past my elbows. Admiring my handiwork, I turned toward my husband to show him my new, short-sleeved shirt.
Not yet.
