Why I’m Thankful For My Clothes

Like everyone else, at this time of year I like to really reflect on the things I’m thankful for. And since I like clothing so much, I view most things through that lens.

The reason I like menswear so much is because it helps us connect with others. One can pick up an old shirt, or a pair of pants, and warm memories come flooding back just as easily as if one was looking at a photograph.

So, what am I thankful for this year?

I’m thankful for the saggy hip pockets on my Barbour jacket. They weren’t always that stretched out. They got that way from holding my coffee cup on chilly fall mornings during my son’s soccer practice and bottles of juice on a particularly rainy school carnival day.

They’re regularly bulging with, not only my own hands as I warm them while waiting for school to let out, but snacks, napkins, and little toys that must not get left behind (from wherever we happen to be).

The baggy, droopy pockets on my Barbour jacket are a visible testament to the work involved in fatherhood. To taking care of little people who, thankfully, know only to trust because they’ve never been given a reason not to.

I’m thankful for the scuffs on the back of my boots. Sure, boots will develop scuffs all over them with time, but the scuffs on the backs of my boots are different. You see, these scuffs were created by me kicking my feet up on the side of my backyard firepit.

Most weekends, I’ll build a fire and relax while my sons play in the backyard. They’ll dive behind trees, pretending to be Revolutionary War soldiers, or run and leap off the rocks as anthropomorphic monster trucks. Eventually, they’ll get bored of those games and shout over to me to kick a ball around with them.

These scuffs remind me that I’ve been able to provide my sons ample outdoor space for exercise, exploration, and general health and wellbeing. The reason we have so much space is because my wife and I took a rather risky plunge a few years ago and moved to a rural area quite far from where we both grew up. The risk was calculated, sure, but there was still some uncertainty around whether the move was the right choice for our family.

It hasn’t all been sunshine and rainbows. The first school my sons were in was a failure, for instance, but we’ve been able to iron out those early wrinkles and settle into what seems like a good routine for everyone.

These scuffs remind me of how my wife and I took bold action for the benefit of our children. We decided to create an adventure for our family and write our own story. The scuffs remind me of how exciting life can be if you make it that way.

I’m thankful for the stains on my sweater. Honestly, I don’t even know what they’re from. Wine? Maybe ketchup? Could be anything, really.

I wear this sweater constantly around the house for about three-quarters of the year. It’s loose-fitting and lined with soft, cotton flannel. I wear it when I’m cooking dinner, when I’m gathering extra firewood, when I’m playing on the floor with the kids, and when I’m relaxing with my wife at the end of the night while we watch a movie.

The cuffs are stretched out. There are paper towels in the pockets from God-knows-when. There are pulls in the yarns.

And, yes, it has a few stains. I’ve never gotten this sweater dry-cleaned even though I’ve had it for over four years. I just haven’t made the time.

I pull on this sweater most mornings as soon as I step out of bed. It’s what I wear when my youngest son requests that we snuggle on the couch under a blanket and read books. It’s what I wear when my wife and I listen to jazz on Friday nights while decompressing from a busy week. It’s what I wear as I tell my sons I love them as I tuck them into bed.

This sweater is my armor for diving into the fray… this wonderful, weird, unpredictably amazing fray.

I’m thankful for the stitched knee of my old jeans. I’ve had these jeans for probably twelve years. I bought them when my wife and I were living in upstate New York. It was just her, me, and our little bulldog…before the craziness of parenthood (well, “non-canine” parenthood, anyway).

These jeans have seen it all. And they were there from the “beginning”, back when I knew nothing about how to properly dress myself. But they’ve seen me through all the iterations of my sartorial journey.

Due to their long, faithful service, the right knee blew out last year. My wife recently patched it while she had the sewing machine out as she made our sons’ Halloween costumes.

The patch in my jeans means much more than just not having drafty pants. It means a great deal to me that my wife took time out of her day to do a favor for me. It also signifies how we each approach our relationship. We are always looking to make the other’s life easier. When I asked my wife if she had the time to patch my jeans, she didn’t even hesitate. She just set them aside and handed them back to me a little while later when they were done. I didn’t feel like my request was an inconvenience or an imposition. I’m incredibly appreciative of what her patching my pants represented about our marriage.

Speaking of marriage… I am thankful for the scratches on my wedding ring.

When I purchased my ring ten years ago during the summer before we got married, my ring was, obviously, perfectly pristine.

Other than the old Irish coin I wear around my neck, this ring was the first piece of real jewelry I would ever wear and I got a kick out of the fact that I could see my own reflection in it.

That mirror shine was a representation of what a marriage is at the start: a blank slate. As time goes on, the ring gathers dings and scuffs. These aren’t scars or imperfections, though. They are a visual accumulation of the adventures of your life together.

The scratches on my wedding ring represent a life well-lived and without them, none of the other wonderful things in my life would exist. These scratches are my beautiful wife and my two amazing children. They are the man I have grown into in the ten years since I first slipped the ring, sparkling and clear, onto my finger.

And that’s what I love so much about clothes. They mark the passage of time in a way that nothing else can. You can’t wear photographs. You can’t hold memories up to your cheek. You can’t literally wrap yourself in the remembrance of others.

Clothes are a diary. A way to revisit people or places, and read the story of who we were (and are), like strata in the geologic record of our lives.

Sure, I’m thankful for the cool stuff in my wardrobe. But I’m really thankful for the stories each of those pieces has to tell.