I am 56 and 3/4 years old, and I could probably make it to the end of my my run without ever buying any more clothes other than skivvies and socks again. When I do the online actuarial tables, the fact that I don’t drink, don’t smoke, and am reasonably fit (and short!) work to my favor, so I ‘spose I’ve got a good thirty years left, all things considered. I mention this because my J. Peterman catalog came in the mail the other day, and putting aside the spectacular running parody pulled off by Seinfeld, I am a big fan of both the catalog and the products. I mean, any company that puts that much thought into the blurbs accompanying its wares deserves my attention.
As I paged through, I came upon this little ditty on page 14 (screen capture from online):
I instantaneously fixed on it and reached for my wallet to pull out the old credit card. And then I thought:
Do I really need a new shirt?
Again, I’m an upper middle aged man in a monogamous relationship with little need to be stylish. I have remained (within reason) similarly sized throughout my adult life, and while I have been generally good about “simplifying” now and again, I’ve still managed to accumulate a good deal more in the way of clothing than a man needs, to the point that I perform ritual spring and fall attic runs due to lack of space for storage.
The point is, I cannot even begin to tell you how many shirts I have. When UVA won the hoops Natty in 2019, I probably added 20 to at least that number of other random UVA shirts. I’m pretty sure I have nearly 20 plain T-shirts with pockets of various colors, including six white UVA T-s not already counted. I still have two Sigma Chi Derby Days T-shirts (1985, 1986 versions) from college. Don’t even talk to me about dress shirts.
Ok, let’s talk about dress shirts. I’m not sure I’ve ever (in my adult life) parted with a dress shirt for reasons other than horrible coffee staining or a torn off top-bottom leaving a hole. My closet strains to contain my dress shirts, a part of my wardrobe that exploded in size when I retired from the Navy and needed to start dressing like a proper grown up. With blessed retirement not terribly far away, I’ve managed to discipline myself, to the point where I proudly proclaim to other (bored, boring, old dudes) that I have “…purchased my last dress shirt.”
Suits are another problem, and our pandemic-addled world appears to be making each of them increasingly anachronistic. I have my fat Bryan suits (currently stored) and my skinny Bryan suits (likewise) and my in-between Bryan suits, some of which are for summer only and some of which are year round. My Lord Grantham tweed will soon be retired for the season in favor of my Mitch McConnell seersucker and my Barack Obama khaki.
Ties? Yep. Too many. The problem with ties though, is that many of them have been gifted by my (adoring, loving, loyal, beautiful, intelligent) womenfolk, who have in the past, espied me heading to Goodwill with a load of clothes for donation. Upon seeing Christmas presents from years past being so blithely discarded, words were exchanged lessons learned.
Given that I have far fewer years left than I have expended, that COVID has proven the concept of wearing the same or very similar things for days on end (track pants and t-shirts have been my uniform of the day), and that requirements for stylish presentation on my part are either non-existent or exist only in my locked-in 1987 consciousness, I conclude that adding to the mix is not only wasteful (or !Not Sustainable!) but counter to my desire to simplify as I prepare for my vine and fig tree.
Unless of course, UVA wins another Natty.
UNC vs. Duke
I was away from home last week, I’ll be away this week, and also next. It’s been a particularly busy period of work, ill-timed with my seasonal obsession with the end of the college basketball season. Watching the NCAA tournament progress whilst one’s own team sheds players to the transfer portal is a low-stress, high enjoyment thing (watching the tournament, not the shedding), and after a day of poking around antique stores and a used bookstore with Catherine, I had determined to hunker down in the man-cave to watch Kansas v. Villanova and UNC v. Duke.
The problem with this plan soon became evident, as Catherine and I share a love of British period-pieces, and we had begun bingeing Season 2 of “Bridgerton” a few days earlier. Sequestering myself in the mancave for five hours of college basketball among teams with whom I have no “real” connection not only represented a poor investment of time with respect to ongoing domestic bliss, but it also represented a true exercise in trade-offs. Should I run the gauntlet and disappear in front of the Final Four—where despite the pedigree of the teams involved, there was no GUARANTEE there would be one or two games, the watching of which would exceed the obvious enjoyment of the Bridgerton binge? Or should I do the right thing and commit to the couch for romance and intrigue?
I chose the latter. It is now Sunday morning and the interwebs reveal to me that I missed an absolute epic between UNC and the hated Duke Blue-Devils. To say I “missed” it though, is a bit of an overstatement, as during the game I kept open the CBS app and followed along electronically with the score. It turned out to be a rousing “Two-fer”, as the Viscount Bridgerton (Anthony to his friends) eventually put aside duty for love and married the fetching Kate Sharma (pictured above), even as the Tar Heels won one for the ages.
No question, I made the right choice.
Modern Love
When I read the NYT column this essay is based on a few months ago, I yearned for a good response. Here it is:
McG—sometimes it's okay to just get the shirt, but I feel you. Same here—too many clothes for the remaining days. Other option, especially for your beloved UVA togs: have them made into a t-shirt quilt, preserved for all eternity. I have two Traveling Pillsbury/UVA/concert quilts made from old t-shirts. Seen and used every day! In Hoc (check out www.campusquilts.com)
Yes, you need the shirt.