URSABLOG: A Change in Space and Time. Part 2: My Favourite Shirt

You may have come across Parkinson’s Law:

Work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion.

Well, I think this can be adapted into other areas of life, whilst still maintaining the same theme:

The number of items of clothing expands so as to fill the space available for their storage.

This was brought home during my recent move, both in the packing and the unpacking. I have moved from one flat – which I had moved into as one part of a couple, with storage space added by us – to a flat for one person, with what seemed to me ample storage space. How foolish of me.

When we broke up, and I was left alone in the flat, whilst the empty wardrobes and drawers were rather forlorn and melancholy, I didn’t rush out to buy new clothes to fill the void, and neither did I go out and buy myself outfits to proclaim and take advantage of my new singledom. I was in no fit state to do either.

My mother has always says: “Never get a haircut when you’re in a bad mood.” After bitter experience of my own, I tend to agree with her. I would also add to this: “Never go out buying clothes when you’re in a bad mood.” You will tend to buy unsuitable clothes to cheer yourself up, or not pay enough attention to size or style and just grab a few handfuls and dump them on the cashier’s counter. Retail therapy rarely works, at least for me.

But eventually I found myself buying clothes: when I needed a new suit or a pair of trousers, I picked up a few other things at the same time. Or whilst browsing the websites of COS or Uniqlo, or whatever, I would click and pay for whatever I felt I was in need of, without checking beforehand what was already in my wardrobe.

I often bought clothes, especially online, optimistically – either guessing at my size, or choosing slim or straight fits for a body shape that is neither slim nor straight – and then when finding they were a bit of a tight squeeze, instead of sending them back (I couldn’t be bothered) I pretended that they were a motivation to get back on the bike and lose some kilos.

Even when buying in shops, I was either too hopeful when trying on clothes that I would fit into them n the near future (cut down on bread and pasta), or too vain to resist the entreaties of attractive shop assistants when they said the item in question fitted perfectly, when it manifestly didn’t.

Another problem is that I am colourblind: I get confused when red, pink, orange, scarlet, burgundy, brown, beige, green, olive or black are mixed up together, especially in areas of poor light. I even mistake burgundy for black, or beige for green.

I have been known to buy pink jackets that I thought were cream – to the horror and amusement of friends and family alike – and instinctively avoid plaid or other patterns where threads of bright orange or green sneak in unseen by me, but dazzle everyone else. Those very same attractive shop assistants must have assumed I have definitive and loud tastes, or were just keen to offload otherwise unsellable clothes onto a sucker. I tend to go shopping for clothes only with trusted and opinionated friends these days.

But I am ok with blue. Blue is safe.

And so, clothing accumulated, and wardrobe space was gradually filled with clothing that was barely worn, as the same tight cycle of familiar clothes was worn and washed, ironed and worn again. Only when my cleaner was away did I venture into the darker depths of the wardrobes, trying something on, realising why I didn’t wear that particular garment very often: usually it was size, but also style, or looking a bit too shabby to be worn out of the house. But instead of taking it down to the recycling bin, I replaced it in the wardrobe or in the drawer: I might get thinner, I may indeed wear it only around the house. I apparently have a deep-seated inability to let things go.

This was particularly true of ‘favourite’ clothes. Shirts and trousers made well from quality fabric that fit perfectly but were too faded and worn to venture outside into the world in, comfort clothes if you like, some with good memories attached, others just because they felt good to be inside. Sometimes – either in a rush or in the dark – I made mistakes and did wear them out into the world, only realising too late, spending the rest of the day being the very opposite of comfortable: too embarrassed to take my jacket off or rise from behind my desk.

When it came to packing up my clothes for the move, I was in such a rush to prepare for the moving guys that armfuls of clothes got stuffed in suitcases, plastic crates and cardboard boxes without paying too much heed to the fact that maybe I simply had too many clothes. I even found unopened packages of unidentified clothing that I had bought on the internet lurking around the bottoms of wardrobes and drawers. Nonetheless everything went.

Then in the chaos of moving in, I tried – in the face of mounting pyramids of boxes – to clear space in three rooms where I would be living initially: the kitchen, the bathroom and the bedroom. I went between these rooms opening and unpacking boxes, suitcases, plastic crates and bags and trying to find homes for their contents.

The kitchen was easy enough: there were plenty of drawers and cupboards available, and whilst it took a while to find the right drawer and the right cupboard for the right utensils, pots, pans, plates and packages of food – and then changing my mind – things were cleared soon enough.

The bathroom was easy too: a bathroom cabinet for toiletries and various – and minimal – grooming apparatus, and other spaces for toilet rolls and so on.

In the bedroom, however, I was faced with an immediate problem. There was only one coat rail in one wardrobe, nowhere near long enough to take all my suits, shirts, trousers and jackets. In the old place I had five, six if you count the double wardrobe. I had an embarrassment of coat hangers. Luckily, I had a standalone coat rail – unused since the unwelcome arrival of wardrobe space after the breakup – so that was pressed into temporary action. It is still standing.

Something had to give.

I went on a blitz: in a determined and ruthless mood, I tried on a series of trousers. Those that I could not get beyond my thighs comfortably (or at all), those that I could not do up at the waist: all were put in a box for recycling. Even there though, I kept some behind that were a little tight, arguing with myself that I may get thinner one day. I had more trouble with those that fitted well but were worn. They mounted in a corner: I would wear them inside. But how many of these does a man actually need? Three? Four? Not twelve certainly. I do not spend that much time at home anyway. They are still there.

T-shirts and sweatshirts were mostly kept, however old or whatever state they were in; well, you never know. Wool jumpers and pullovers were washed, dried, and stowed away in old suitcases, to go in the upper cupboards (did I mention that I am blessed with tall ceilings?) to await cooler months. Beach things were sorted, gathered, and put in one place. Cycling stuff was divided between winter and summer, and packed away, or put in drawers as appropriate.

But shirts remained a problem, and having run out of determination and energy, I decided to attack them another day.

I found that I was at peak determination early in the day, so for three mornings on the run, whilst getting ready for work, I went through my shirts, trying them on, one after another, until I found one that fit. One morning I had to force myself to reject six shirts in one go. They were perfectly good shirts, barely worn, good quality material, nice weave. But I understood quickly why they were barely worn: they did not fit. I could not even get them in a position where I could attempt to do up the buttons. Out they went.

This was fine for work shirts, but again I found myself prevaricating. Maybe that one, where I couldn’t do the top button up without strangling myself, could be worn with a tie. Maybe the other one that was tight around the belly – so tight that it threatened to ping a button off after a nice meal – could be placed in a prominent place on the rail to shame me into getting on the bike again. And that one – old, faded, comfortable, a favourite of mine from when I felt good, was successful – professionally and personally. Surely that shirt was a factor in my success? Will throwing it away preclude all chance of success, professional and personal?

It’s a battle but, bit by bit, I am letting go. The lack of space, or rather the desire to live in a space which is uncluttered, peaceful and calm, demands it. Clothes may make the man, but so does what he does and how he lives.

Clothes, despite everything, are actually not that important to me. I just want to be comfortable in my skin, and as the sight of too much of my skin in normal daily life would be offensive to most people I meet, I want to be as unselfconscious and relaxed as possible, in the clothes I wear. If I do not pay attention to what clothes I wear, however, I will feel awkward and less than confident.

But just filling up the space available with clothes that may, or may not, fit is not a particularly wise way of using the resources available to me. It is only now, in a new place with less storage space, but more living space, that I have to make decisions as to what is really important to me, and what isn’t. I have found I want a space to live in now, not storage for clothes I may not ever wear.

The same is true of time. How I choose to use my time – now I have realised that it is not infinite – means making decisions about what is really important to me right now. Doing things that are easy and comforting for me – life expanding into the time available – has always been more tempting than squarely facing something difficult and challenging. And now, later in life, as I rue the difficulties unfaced, the challenges unanswered, the words unsaid, I wonder whether those choices have been wise, let alone courageous.

The inability to let go of clothes that no longer fit, that never fitted, that are worn out or that are shabby but nonetheless comfortable, that you can’t remember why you even bought them, that you bought in error, that someone bought for you is a problem that you don’t have to face until space becomes scarce.

The inability to let go of ways of living and doing things, of ways of thinking that no longer fit you, that perhaps never fitted you but have become comfortable from overuse and familiarity, that you can’t even remember why you ever thought they were appropriate, that you adopted in error, that somebody gave to you is also a problem that you don’t have to face until circumstances change, and then you have to too.

Maybe it is the simple act of letting go of things that have become important to me – long after their importance has faded in the eyes of others – that can liberate. But also, maybe, it is good to just hang out with your friends and family at home in your scruffs.

Simon Ward