Anthroblography: January 2013

Today, I feel like an old, discarded piece of clothing. One that you were once so excited to find in the store, that you couldn't wait to take home. That you wore everywhere you could get away with, and that got worn as a result.

You know that old pair of socks that have holes in them but are your favourite, lucky, most comfortable pair that you just can't bring yourself to throw out? Or that old sweater that's all bent out of shape, faded from washing, doesn't fit anymore but reminds you of all the incredible things you did while wearing it? That absolutely, indescribably irreplaceable piece of clothing that you hold on to for far too long, despite the advice of your friends, despite your mother's nagging, despite multiple attempts of your dad to hand you money to just buy a new one already...

Maybe it's faded a little, but it's just from aging along side you, accompanying you everywhere, keeping you warm, getting you through those hard times. You can hardly expect the sleeves the stay perfect when you've been drying your tears with them for all those years, or the collar to stay the same perfect half circle shape and retain it's elasticity when you've been pulling at it incessantly. Sure, it's seen better days; it used to be more beautiful, have that new clothes smell, be wrinkle free... None of that matches up to the memories that accompany such a favourite piece of clothing. None of that is as important as the attachment you have to something that nobody else understands but you, something that makes you feel safe, comfortable, and something that makes you feel like you don't have to apologize for anything you are.

Until the day when you happen to spot socks in the store and remember to pick them up, or when you finally find a new sweater that's just as comfortable as the old one, that fits you a little bit better, that all your friends tell you looks good on you. It's rarely a special sweater, hardly exceptional or unusual, and most likely not associated with any particular moment of mention in your life. Just a pretty decent sweater, that still has that new sweater smell-that still hugs your curves in all the right places, and hasn't yet become stained with your own clumsy mistakes.

And just like that you have a new favourite sweater. The old one ends up in the laundry, waiting to be washed, but never really makes into the machine. It just sits there on the bottom of the hamper, stained, worn and forgotten. No longer needed, no longer special. And just like that, all those time that you wore it because it was lucky, and all those times you wore it because it made you feel just that little bit more confident, they don't matter anymore. After all, it's just a damn sweater, it's not like there was ever any actual causality happening between the sweater and your life achievements... Doesn't matter that it's still smudged a little black on the sleeve from wiping your mascara-tears on it when your grandma died, or that it's frayed along the edges from picking at it when you got nervous in that big business meeting, or during that exam you studied so long and hard for. You did all those things all on your own, and would have done just fine without the sweater, even if the thought of having it there gave you that little boost of confidence you so much adored.

For weeks the sweater will sit in the hamper. Festering, like an open sore never tended to, like a wound never given a chance to heal. And it will just get more and more faded, in colour and in memory, until there is hardly anything left of the essential qualities that made it your favourite in the first place. And then, if you ever happen to stumble upon it again, or see it in an old photograph, you may smile briefly and think back fondly on those days. Or you may not even recall it being anything other than just another sweater. In the end, you'll just put on the sweater you like at that time without thinking twice on it, and I will still be right here, like an old sweater, remembering you, unremembered all the same.