fashion: things fall apart

Well, I give up. It seems that the more foul elements of eighties fashion have settled over the whole of the Western world. A pop into Urban Outfitters in Dublin has proven that fashion has spun out of control. There is nothing I can do now except to bear down, and try to ride it out. I will not be purchasing metallic ballet flats, wearing tapered jeans or even leg warmers over high heels and tights. If I can just lay low, it will pass me by like a breaking wave.

The news of my personal fashion is that things are falling apart. My t-shirts are thin and stained. I am down to one pair of sandals. My hiking pants are bleached and my swimsuit almost ripped apart (thank goodness for sewing kit). Things are beginning to be thrown away as bare threads and fallen hems just aren't worth washing and wearing anymore.

I packed a green, nylon pair of pants that I have had since my junior year of high school. I had been wearing these pants for a lot of the first part of the trip, then sort of started hating them. Too restrictive. I almost threw them away in Italy, then decided to mend the torn seam and wear on. At a castle in Trim Ireland, with a big green lawn, I was telling Melissa that I had changed my mind about the pants and didn't like them again (I was enjoying them temporarily). Not one minute after I said it, I was feeling very inspired by the big green lawn and sunshine and decided to turn a cartwheel. Just as I reached the top of the turn with my feet flying through the air, I heard it (so did Melissa). Riiiiiip. Oops. A 6" tear in the leg ripped right across. There just wasn't enough fabric left to withstand the acrobatics. After a nice roll-in-the-grass-laugh I went to the car and changed. A lot of great memories over the last ten years that the pants were with me. Now their final resting place: the Dublin landfill.

My jeans have about 3 weeks left in them. Melissa and I actually wrote a tune about wearing the same pair of jeans all the time. Same Pair of Jeans, it's titled. There is an ink stain by the right front pocket where my pen blew up in La Paz, Bolivia, due to altitude. There are dark droplets down the front legs where I spilled red wine on myself during an outdoor food festival in Varenna, Italy. The white creases on the fronts came from our road trip up country in Kenya where they got so dirty, that after a washing the dirtiest parts were left white and bunchy. They are bleached out in general and ready to be retired. It feels weird to throw away clothing, but at the same time feels good to actually be wearing things out instead of just changing my mind about them. In the case of these jeans, I may write a poem in commemoration for their dutiful service. If I come home draped in Thai silk and with mirrored headbands holding back my hair, know that its not an expression of my newly found frame of mind, but out of necessity.