I am not a sentimental person.
I don’t keep things pertaining to memory.
A cold hearted de-clutterer; I discard cards, presents, even objects from my childhood.
Because of this, sentiment surrounding clothes is an interesting concept to me, especially if they are designer.
I don’t think designer clothes are meant to evoke comfort exactly. Physical comfort due to the quality, yes, but emotional comfort, no. I associate luxury items with desire, status and if anything else, unease. A Chanel security blanket seems to be an oxymoron, because luxury is not familiar enough to provide solace. Very occasionally do these ideas overlap.
Sometimes when I’m watching closet tours on Youtube, I noticed that when an influencer is asked what their favourite item is, it will always be the oldest, most deteriorated designer piece they have. Not the newest and shiniest, but the most worn out and familiar. In these instances it seems sentiment has dominated any aspiration the garment might have once promised as a luxury item.
I don’t have anything like this. However, I am a complete kleptomaniac.
I acquire everyone else’s things. Like a serial killer, I like to take souvenirs from the crime scenes that are my interpersonal relationships.
Lock up your son’s under garments, lock up your daughter’s outerwear. I will steal their steals. I will be their handkerchief thief. I will pick their pocket attached to their coat.
Here is a confessional archive, if you will:
Emma, I have your jacket
Jonas, I have your T-shirt
Lola, I have your Bratz Doll’s clothes from 2003
Charlie, I have your jeans
Sarah, I have your singlet
Ex boyfriend, I have your pyjamas and ex boyfriend’s brother, I have your sweater
Papa, I have your button up
Mama, I have your bras, your underwear, your shoes, your bag from L.A, your suspender belt, your silky scarf, your slip dress, your fur coat, your socks and your pencil skirt
In case you can’t tell, if I have a piece of your clothing, I love you.
Alternatively, if you have a piece of my clothing, you have broken into my house, drugged me and pried said clothing from my cold, lifeless, yet tastefully manicured hands.
I like wearing people’s belongings. I like being close to them without being around them. God forbid I relate to anyone in a normal fashion, but at least stealing lends itself to my usually lacking sentimental side.
I had my friend’s jumper for more than 6 months of last year. I wore it in front of her, sometimes to her house, on regular occasions and still managed to keep it in my grasp.
But now she’s gone to England for a year. I was meant to return it before she left. She was even going to let me swap it for another item in her wardrobe to ease the pain of separation. None of this went according plan.
A meaner me may have been happy to have successfully secured someone else’s item for a whole year, but I decided to be kind.
The day came. My friend’s jumper was washed, dried, folded, wrapped and shipped off to it’s new address.
If I had it my way, I would be wearing it for the second winter in a row. But you know what they say: if you love something set it free, if it comes back from the UK in a suitcase, you can steal it again.
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