Last week we visited a friend in her backyard. Even at twenty feet, she noticed my shirt—about eight years old, full of holes, one cuff hanging by a thread. Our friend asked, “Is that your pandemic shirt?” I didn’t know what she meant. “You wear it in case of Covid, then take it off before entering the house.” I said no, I just liked it. She seemed flustered. “I just meant,” she said, and trailed off.
All my life, I love clothes. I love Vogue, i-D, and Project Runway. I fantasize about someday buying an Errolson Hugh coat. That said, I own very little, I rarely shop, and most of what I wear is well-used. Each piece is special. The suit purchased in a Paris boutique. The watch my wife gave me for climbing trips. The coat I wore my first time hunting. (Okay, I own a lot of coats.) Recently, a pair of shorts needed to be repaired after fifteen years—they were getting pornographic—and their rehabilitation made them even dearer. I like patina. I like scars. I like stories that come with age. Who needs to read a novel by a twenty-something when there’s Penelope Fitzgerald?
Growing up, I went for long periods feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. Why this feeling fell on me I don’t know, but I longed to be somebody else. Putting on clothes was like listening to music—it helped me sort out what I liked, what I didn’t, made me admire people who stood out, helped me realize that nobody is just one thing. The other day at our friend’s house, we had a good laugh about it. I didn’t mind what my shirt suggested. To me, that shirt’s just very me.
Image courtesy of Santa Cruz Gear Repair. Post-repair shot on Instagram.
Books mentioned in this newsletter are available in a Bookshop list