Clothes that don’t want you back: Our mothers keep our first Eid outfits folded away, not for fabric but for memory. When those piles of clothes resurface, they carry stories of cost, pride, and love — reminders that we outgrow clothes but rarely outgrow attachment. Although we have outgrown those clothes and trends have changed, our emotional attachment makes us feel, “How could I throw this out?” — and that feeling lasts forever. That’s how an off-white frock and a grape-green shirt end up making sure that those who wore them 13 years ago remember which other piece was liked first, why this was the final choice, how bewitched the family felt when the clothes were first worn, and how we messed them up for the first time. Before we realise it, emotional attachment to something created only to clothe the body silently settles in us as we live.
Wait, Woe, Worry, and Whatever Clothes Bring with Them
Why hasn’t the suit you wore to an interview — at a company that rejected you — been worn since? Why do we continue to keep the art apron at home even though we stopped attending the art class long ago? The answer is: just because. We just do. Like how we just happen to be buying clothes for the trip that isn’t yet confirmed, the university we haven’t yet been admitted to, and the hangout that hasn’t yet been planned. Maybe it’s a way to actualise things we’re wishing for — to believe we can take steps towards an unfinished road, desperately hoping the road starts constructing itself as we walk. A pair of jeans worn excitedly can turn into an untouchable, unthinkable choice after someone’s uncalled-for dislike of it. The haunting memory of the embarrassment caused by that piece of cloth forever prevents you from even glancing at it, let alone having the courage to wear it. The jeans are still waiting because of the trauma they caused, but the top you keep choosing gets to travel with you. It becomes a defence mechanism. To protect ourselves from shame, we forego the sources that invite it.
Hanging Onto Loose Threads
Out of habit, we buy clothes in a size we are no longer — or out of an inability to come to terms with who we have become, whether that relates to size, colour, skin condition, etc. You find yourself measuring your body, measuring the time until you can wear the clothes of your “true size”, and measuring the number of clothes you own that still don’t fit — but you can’t let them go either. All the measurements bring numbers you would rather not see. But if they are in the closet, then they can be worn one way or another. They are still yours to wear. If they are removed, however, that becomes a declaration of failure to fulfil a promise made to oneself. The sweater you wore when you met your friend for the last time before a friendship breakup becomes too hard to look at and too hard to look away from. Clothes become theatre screens — recapping, rewinding and replaying moments our minds could never fully comprehend. The lingering feeling that remains tangled is more commonly recognised as the indispensable brown sweater.
The Hour-Spanning Life of Clothes
Outfit repeating is a well-announced taboo. One “Oh, you’ve worn this before, right?” — and the ground starts to lift beneath you, all 8 billion existing pair of eyes on your bare face and their two ears sending information to be memorised till death. It’s pointless, meaningless — all until one such encounter. Once this fear makes its space, the victims mould themselves according to the illegitimate customs of this world’s inhabitants — wearing this, looking that — socially secluded if more or less.
A Therapist That We All Share
Shopping, marketed as retail therapy, was definitely intended to be satirical, but people couldn’t get the joke. When one views the problem as the solution, it often leads to more serious issues. When you embark on a shopping spree after receiving criticism for your attire, you’re likely to purchase clothes solely for the approval of others, rather than out of personal preference. After accepting your physical appearance and losing the battle to reality, if you go shopping, you’ll only look for more things you could have been wearing and deserved to be wearing and yet again ignore the section of your actual size, in rebellion to nothing really yet everything at the same time. Clothes can’t be the band-aid when they caused the wound themselves; let’s save retail therapy for some other day.
We Live as We Live
Clothes play a significant role in our appearances, absorbing our experiences and leaving a lasting impact on us. The nearest thing we can touch seems to unload some of our weight on it. We distance ourselves from the clothes that brought us discomfort: the outfit worn on the date you underdressed for, the time you thought you were complying with the dress code but had to cover the embarrassment by pretending you didn’t know one existed, and the piece saved for a day that never arrived. That’s how we tend to live. It becomes a two-sided knife in the end; once — as we like to think of it — clothes hurt us, in return, we hurt them by avoiding them. Clothes don’t hurt us — we hurt ourselves through them. Yet to blame fabric is easier than to confront our own fears. That too is human.
