We’ve been cleaning out the closets lately, generally de-cluttering the house, and as part of that process, some of my shirts have passed on to the realm of the thrift shop. Perhaps one day I’ll spot some young whipper-snapper with a waxed mustache and suspenders making his way down Broadway, girded not only by his own sense of irony, but also by one of my shirts. But that’s fine– I’ve reclaimed closet space, and Lorie is comforted by the fact that my clothing isn’t (entirely) stuck in the 90s.

I’ve never been a particularly fashionable person at any time, so it’s not like we unearthed a treasure trove of hammer pants and, uh… what were other hip things from last century? Backwards overalls? Those snap bracelets? I don’t even recall at the moment– I mostly wore t-shirts that were too big for me, and jeans that were also too big. Looking at photos from high school and even college, it seems funny how gangly I look, although the reality is that I’m essentially the same size, then and now. I’m fortunate to have not yet crossed the “Huh, that’s weird, didn’t this shirt fit last summer?” bridge, but that also means there’s no passive forces at work to purge old clothing from my wardrobe, other than entropy. Fortunately Lorie has been more than willing to act as my fashion consultant.