I helped a friend of a friend move today and it made me wonder. First, why was I doing this? Second, what happens to all our possessions? This guy has a lot of stuff. Having recently moved myself, I purged pounds of clothing, books, and other items. And don’t worry, I got my receipts. I hope my moth ridden sweaters are keeping some homeless Syracusian warm, but I bet my old duds are in the thrift shop.
One day some set designer in my theater class (yes, I took some theater classes) sported a familiar T-shirt. It was too big for him, just as it was too big for its last owner: me. Wearing layers of black clothing under it didn’t work; there was no black known to man that matched this fabric. Big bulky sweatshirts didn’t detract from its obvious oversize. Try as I might, I could never make this stretched out shirt fit right. So one day I tossed it in a lawn bag and waved the Salvation Army truck goodbye. I’m sure the set designer set that garment free by now too. So I didn’t punch him and steal my shirt back; I knew his pain— great shirt, lousy fit. Not even someone who attended the ’91 Use Your Illusion tour could work their magic and turn that ill fitting rag around.
The moral of this story is if your material goods don’t fit put them up for adoption. Not that I believe my former shirt has a happy home, but hey, you never know. I’ve seen some oddly shaped humans before. Anything you grew out of, that never fit in the first place, or you don’t know the origin of should be recycled. You don’t need it now.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment