A little background, please. About 5 years ago (could be 6, could be 4, all my friends know that the whole memory thing? Not really what I’m about!), my lovely, soft chenille bathrobe disintegrated. It wasn’t quick or painless. My robe languished, slowly losing bits of itself along the way. A pocket ripped in ’92. The left underarm split, leaving a gaping hole back in ’98. The elbows of the sleeves had worn so thin, rice paper would be proud to call them mama and papa. 2000 was the year that the right side at the waist gave up staying together and the two sides parted ways. The sash shredded over time so that when the robe finally gasped its last breath, it was little more than an unglorified string.
I don’t let go of or give up on things easily. I keep remembering the good times, when my bathrobe was fresh and new and in one whole piece, and all was right in the world. Okay, I made that last part up. I don’t think all has ever been right in the world, even when my robe was still hanging happily on the hook in my bathroom.
So bathrobe disintegrated about 5 or so years ago, I was very attached to it, I’d had it a long time, blah, blah. Okay, so we’ve established that I don’t give up easily and that apparently I’m not a seamstress. Have we also established that I’ve not replaced the robe, yet? Consider it established. Instead of a robe, I use several ancient, baggy, and a-tad-too-long-in-the-sleeves (remember the bowl of milk and cornflakes?) flannel shirts. You didn’t know flannel was ancient? Come on! They found the bones of a T-Rex wearing a gray, flannel shirt. Dinosaurs sewing skills may be questionable, but their taste in comfy garments is above reproach.
You may ask, why haven’t I replaced the robe? I said you may ask. Me, not so much. Why replace it? I’m doing just fine with all my ancient, baggy, and a-tad-too-long-in-the-sleeves flannel shirts! Besides, we all know how what an arduous process it is breaking in a new robe!
The only problem with the “ancient” part of my flannel shirts is that this equates to torn, holey (not to be confused with holy, that is another blog), and in general looking a great deal like rags and much less like a shirt part. Plus, these shirt/rags don’t cover my knees (which do get cold in the winter) like a nice, cozy robe does.
This got me to thinking about all the other rags I wear and/or hang onto. My house is filled with rags! I’m always thinking, “Nah, no need to throw out that towel, shirt, shorts, whatever. I can still wear those jeans, shirt, shorts around the house.” Uh. Why? “I know! I’ll use it for dusting or cleaning.” Do I dust? Hmm…rarely. Am I that into cleaning? That would be a big, fat NO, folks. So what is this obsession I have with rags? Am I not worthy of the new, the unworn, and the untorn? Ah. We have a winner. Here we are again. The question of worthiness.
That’s it. After 40 odd (very) years of struggling with the concept of my worth, I’ve had it! NO more rags!! I’m going to go through my closets, cupboards, and drawers and banish all the rags from my doorstep (and from the house, too). To paraphrase the quote of one hell of a lady, “As God is my witness, as God is my witness these rags are not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never wear rags again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill all the rags I encounter. As God is my witness, I'll never wear rags again.” Cue dramatic music.
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