I was stepping over a thornbush at Oppikoppi the weekend
when my jeans exploded. Torn asunder, from the crotch out. It was my second
pants explosion of the weekend.
A lesser
man would have taken this as nature’s comment on my physique, as some kind of
warning that two gym visits a week might not be cutting it. But I am savvier
than that.
I know I
just have weak jeans.
My jean
pool has not been augmented for years now. The best I’ve done is take five
pairs to Levingers and have them patched, which is good as far as it goes, but
not foolproof.
Curiously,
the one part of a jean pant they don’t patch is the crotch. And those things
dissolve. After ten years – whisper it, not my oldest jeans – there’s little
fabric of integrity left to attach patches to.
The other
pants exploded when I was climbing under a fence. It’s the squatting motion
that does it, as I’m sure other people have noted.
So what has
got me into this predicament, this spiral of jeanetic kakness? Nostalgia,
that’s what it is. Nostalgia.
You’re
probably still at home, go look in your wardrobe. You’ll see a cupboard full of
memories. With us humans starring only furtively with our clothes off, every
great experience of our lives will be linked to the set of clothes we were
wearing when it happened.
With ladies
this might be more common, and with all of us, the effect in our memories is
enhanced by the photos of us in our clothes, which we’ve had ever since.
Highlights
of my personal collection of finery include the shorts I wore when we got lost
in the Kalahari for six hours, an 07 Bok jersey signed by Jake White, my
Comrades shorts, a jean I had on when I jammed with Vusi Mahlasela and baggies
from this pool party with Lee-Ann Liebenberg.
A cupboard
of some glory then, you’ll agree. Yours is no doubt every bit as illustrious.
These
garments are hard to let go of. Even when they explode halfway up the hill there
by the Skellum stage. Rest assured, there’s a lot of soul-searching going on
about those pants. They may yet ride again.
But of
course when we fling our wardrobe doors wide each morning, we don’t ponder the
road we’ve walked with our clothes, we decide what we should wear for the day
ahead.
What would
be a good shirt for a consultation? For an engagement braai? For a birthday
party at Taboo? What shoes for three days in the bush? What dress for a pitch
meeting? What kind of trucker cap to interview Chuck D of Public Enemy?
So many
choices, and once made, the garments forever carry some of the essence of the
occasions they have graced. They will be imbued with the spirit of those
events, as much as they have helped to create them.
Our
wardrobes, our collections of clothes, stand at the nexus of our lives, where
the past meets the future.
Some are
fresh, yet to accumulate much history. Others may never be worn again, least of
all because paisley waistcoats are out of fashion, but because we might have
had them on at Kath’s birthday party that time in Parktown.
It’s a
gallery of memories, an arsenal of weapons, a selection of power-up shields
and, okay, some stuff to keep you warm and hide your dangly bits.
But
sometimes you gotta let go. You can’t fetishise every garment you ever had a
good time in. So my illustrious, exploded Levi’s will be passed along to Dennis
at the gate, to do with as he sees fit.
If I wasn’t
able to let go of my historic outfits, I’d still have that orange T-shirt I had
on when I held hands with Lindy Betheldo at Newton Park Pre-Primary. Wonder
what happened to that thing.
Oh yes!
Torn during the all-Lorraine mud-pie fight by the river. I’d started growing out
of it by that stage. It was far too small for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment