The Velveteen Sweatshirt (and t-shirt, and cutoffs)

One of the things that rarely happens in fashion blogs is discussion of what people wear when they sacrifice style for comfort. Maybe they're having a day when they simply don't care - or they're baking or gardening or just having a lazy morning.

Let's face it: Nearly everyone has run to the corner market in Crocs. (OK, I don't own Crocs, but I'll admit to being braless on a few occasions when I've brought my daughter to the bus stop, including today.) Or perhaps, like me, you too have dragged the recycling bins to the curb on garbage day in pajamas and winter boots. 

Clothing is performative, but sometimes you don't want to put your costume on, right? So I want to present three articles of clothing that are among my favorites. No designers here, but these are, and have been, in heavy wardrobe rotation. However, you'll be lucky to ever see these in person, mostly because the shirt and sweatshirt are on their very, very last legs (sleeves?).

Many of you probably remember the bit on Seinfeld about Jerry's attachment to "Golden Boy," his old beloved T-shirt that was beginning to fray but with which he couldn't part. Mary-Chapin Carpenter wrote a lovely song about her own version of Golden Boy, called simply "This Shirt" (ignore the cheesy 1990 video graphics and just listen). Her shirt evokes memories of a shirt well-worn and a life well-lived, across relationships and countries:

We all have articles of clothing that embody our memories, and here are three of mine.

The cutoff shorts were jeans I scavenged from a trash pile in my neighborhood in Takapuna, New Zealand. They were left curbside with other rubbish during "Inorganic Collection Time 2010." (I love how the Kiwis can make even recycling sound posh.) They're covered in brown and white paint, evidence of someone else's labor. In my sunny apartment, I basically lived in these during the six weeks I was undergoing radiation. I have read great novels, napped, and cried in these cutoffs, and more recently wore them to a Lucero show at which I was far too well-behaved. Mostly, though, they aren't seen in public beyond my own property line. 

The Vespa shirt came from Value City, the thrift store dangerously close to my house in American Samoa. There were a lot of treasures there, but this was my my favorite find. It's got small holes along the seams under the arms that get a little bigger every time I wash it. I have no idea of its original provenance - possibly Australian, as most of the shipments at Value City arrived in bulk from Down Under. In any case, I wore it on my 40th birthday in New Zealand. Here I am on that day, relieved to have finished radiation two days earlier and astounded at the bacon and obscene bananas on my breakfast plate at a Devonport restaurant:

There will always be other cutoffs, but the Vespa shirt is special. Sure, I could buy a new one on eBay with the same logo, but none of them have the double stripes along the shoulders - or the personal history. 

The third article of clothing is probably the oldest item in my wardrobe in terms of how long I've had it. Moses Brown is a posh private school in Providence. I found this vintage large kids' size Champion sweatshirt about twelve years ago at the clothing sale for MB's rival, the Wheeler School (see my last blog post). Mostly, now, I sleep in it, but there was a time when I wore it for far more vigorous activities, like hiking in the Adirondacks with my dog:

I've repaired the huge holes that are keeping the sleeves on, but it's so threadbare that there's almost nothing for the repair thread to anchor itself to. This is a self-portrait with the camera positioned at one of the holes. 

One of my dearest friends suggested that one's attachment to such things becomes almost pathological. I don't disagree. Will my life change, really, when this becomes another rag? Of course not. But I might be less comfortable. And there are no heirs apparent. 

What is it about certain articles of clothing? I would argue it's some combination of memory and physical comfort. These have been with me in some of my darkest hours, and like the story of the velveteen rabbit, they have become more real over the years; even as they grow shabbier, I love them more.