Forty-One
Shirts:
The Need
For Things that do not Breathe
In a recent survey, conducted exclusively in my closet and laundry
hamper, I discovered I am the "proud" owner of forty-one
tee shirts. The breakdown of these forty-one tee-shirts is as
follows: Ten blue, five black, five white, four gray, three red,
two orange, two yellow, one green, one tan, one taupe, one brown,
and seven ring-collared and sleeved shirts of various color combinations.
Garnered through unforeseeable osmosis the last seven years, I
now find myself at the mercy of these inanimate objects. How did
this happen – this multi-colored cotton and polyester blend
vortex spinning my head with horrific indecision? Have I become
what I despise; a voracious and insatiable consumer of truly meaningless
goods? A hipster-dandy wearing that slacker tee-shirt look all
the way to a sad, lonely, and overwhelmed-with-fabric end? Do
I really need two of the exact same shirts or two of the same
shirt with slight color variations? Is it bad that I’ve
never worn at least four of these wastes-of-closet-space in public?
Why have I placed so much value on my fashion consciousness and
what does it say about me that it involves tee-shirts?
I think my owning
forty-one tee-shirts signifies something generally disturbing
about myself to myself. I –although quite aware of the ill
modern habits of the everyday American – bought into it,
literally and with my soul. I can’t part with my navy and
yellow "I’d rather be in Grand Junction" shirt,
even though I wear it once every two months, because I’ve
placed substantial value on it. I will want other tee-shirts –
better colored ones, better fitting ones, plainer, funnier, classier,
all-in-all different species of tee-shirts – because I can’t
stop consuming, nor can I rid myself of any one in my collection.
My forty-one
tee shirts pulsate. They call to me from the darkened closet,
giving me so many choices I am made indecisive, wasting hour upon
hour in agonizing inconclusiveness. And even when I pick one to
wear the other forty are there with it – questioning my
decisions, pointing out better combinations to my pants, advertising
themselves in my brain through selected memory, haunting my mind-space
by sheer numbers, letting me believe other people will behave
better towards me if I wear the correct shirt on the right day.
Even more perplexing
than the idea that my daily life can be affected by putting on
a specific item of clothing: I am beguiled by this incessant pull
to keep purchasing shirts. Perhaps, like so many Americans, I
choose to fill my personal voids with things that do not breathe
because of the notion that these purchases will somehow breathe
life into me. And maybe that’s at the heart of over-consumerism.
Americans – increasingly isolated from one another and becoming
more and more oblivious to each other’s everyday habits
– are latching on to easy dependable “things.”
Objects are better than dogs or cats and especially humans because
they are easily replaced – right?
As an example, my college roommate’s mom was fixated on
Mickey Mouse. Here was a 40-year-old woman with an entire room
devoted to Disney memorabilia to go along with her three Mickey
Mouse tattoos. One could argue that hording these sappy collectibles
was her hobby but I don’t think so. To me it was her way
of distancing herself from everybody. An escape to a twisted alternate
reality full of glossy "enchanted" ceramic figurines,
dominated by a cherub-cheeked rat wearing strange pants and no
shirt. It was her way of saying, "fuck you" to her husband
while driving a "goofy" unexplainable wedge between
herself and her children.
If you’ve
ever read the children’s book series The Berenstain Bears,
you might remember the book devoted to what the authors called
"The Got Gimmies." It was basically a book made in reaction
to the "sudden" societal problem – in 1988 apparently
– of children asking for small treats every time the family
went out of the house. These little turds, watching too many commercials
during Sesame Street and Saturday morning cartoons, said, "Gimmie!
Gimmie!" whenever they saw an object of their desire. I was
one of those evil little bastards. I remember one time when I
was eleven, at the old Giantway Supermarket I begged and begged
my mom to buy me this tee-shirt – yes, I know – that
had a crude, comedic head above the words "Freak Boy."
Well, my mom crumbled under the weight of my cracking, pubescent
whine and slapped down sixteen bucks only to watch me wear the
shirt a grand total of three times. (Apparently, while donned
the shirt made me feel like an alienated loser when all I wanted
was to be liked by my peers. Go figure.) Why did my mom crumble?
I believe it was appeasement. Ads and commercials pressured me
to desire a product, and I passed that pressure onto someone that
could buy that product for me. This spineless blob of consumerism
slithered into my brain, forcing me to demand a pointless object
of worthless value. Taking hard-earned money and eating it; making
my single, suffering mother part with cash she could ill afford
to part with.
Now this isn’t
a lesson in responsibility, it’s a lesson in futility. What
was the fucking point in that entire transaction? A mother trying
to clothe her child? I had plenty of clothing. A personal statement
to the public via fashion-for-a-moment-of-self-definition? I wore
the shirt three flippin’ times! Payment for doing my chores
at home? No! Throughout childhood I was notorious for having a
disaster-area room inhabitable only to myself. The true end result
was simply a needless sale – a seed of desire was planted
in me along with the idea that I needed something (anything!)
at all times, regardless of financial means. But I transcended
the gap between desire and actual purchase by finding a way to
buy the product. Once that was achieved the floodgates were left
open, so now in 2006 I own forty-one tee-shirts.
So, what about
you? What kind of secret hoarder of useless treasure are you?
Are you the woman who owns thirty pairs of pink earrings or the
guy with twelve snowmobiles? Who has you buying their product
insatiably? Wal-Mart? Burger King? Nike? Do you have the newest
Lion King DVD, Timon and Pumbaa, or is it Mel Gibson action flicks
that line the shelves of your entertainment center? Please don’t
be mistaken, I’m not speaking in a tone akin to "think
of the starving, shirtless kids in Africa," but I am asking
you what’s the goddamn point of owning and needing all of
this worthless shit? I’m not going to tell you what you
should be spending your hard-earned dollars on, but I am thinking
about having a party, and at this party I’m thinking about
burning some shirts. So maybe you can join me and bring your own
extra crap that’s clogging up your brain, taking up space
in your storage areas, and draining your wallet like you have
an infinite amount of dollars to spend.
M.
Decker is the editor, writer and publisher of Kerplunk zine, a
ratty no good rag founded on pure malarkey. His angst is palpable
by mere presence, yet he loves kitties and enjoys the laughter
of small children.
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