It is a ritual, of sorts.
A ritual of sorting.
Every few years, I have to cull my collection of T-shirts. I collect them. Not always consciously, but I collect them. In this way, T-shirts are a little like lint for me as a dryer. "How did this get in here?" But generally I know. I went someplace that was selling souvenir T-shirts and I had to buy one.
Change that to "was compelled to."
I don't have a lot of control when it comes to the purchase of memorabilia. If I attend a concert, it is almost a certainty that I will walk out with something in an extra-large. Long sleeves if they have them. My wife points out correctly that this is where I do my clothes shopping, since it is only under threat of going naked to the next day of school that I ever consider buying something with a collar or a new pair of teacher pants. I am a victim of my own lack of fashion sense.
Change that to "eccentric taste in fashion."
I like to tell myself that I am a discerning consumer, able to select designs that are both fashion-forward and still maintain that most important element: provide a memory of the event.
So there I was last weekend, stuck with a bed full of memories. The ones that had made it nearly impossible to close my drawers. There were some tough decisions. Could I continue to wear a bright red shirt emblazoned with the Coca-Cola logo when I no longer consumed their product? Did I really need to maintain fifteen different Jimmy Buffett concert shirts?
It was only recently that my wife had reminded me about the tub of stored shirts I had been moving around our basement for the past couple decades. She was able to find a few to share with her nieces, with my permission. A couple more of those were offered up to my son. In the end, enough room was generated from that sort to allow the ones I moved out of my dresser this weekend to find a home. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
For another few years.