Too good to wear

There are clothes we love so much that we practically remove them from our own lives.

First you buy it.

Then you admire it.

Then you decide that today is not quite the right occasion.

Tomorrow feels a little too risky as well.

Too good for work.

Too dressy for the shops.

Visiting friends is dangerous. There is wine.

A café is dangerous. There is coffee.

A walk is dangerous. There is life.

And so the garment spends its best years in the wardrobe.

Very carefully.

Practically unconscious.

The special occasion will definitely come

That is what we tell ourselves.

I’ll wear it later.

When there is an occasion.

When the weather is good.

When it is not raining.

When I am not in a hurry.

When nobody nearby is holding a glass of red wine.

When the planets finally align in a configuration favourable to cashmere.

A special occasion is a remarkable phenomenon.

Everyone waits for it.

Nobody knows the exact date.

Sometimes a dress manages to go out of fashion before this distinguished gentleman finally decides to appear.

Meanwhile, the jumper lies neatly folded, with an impeccable reputation and absolutely no life experience.

Quietly being eaten by a moth which, unlike you, has no habit of waiting for a special occasion.

But I don’t want to ruin it

That is the great argument.

Solid.

Almost.

A good garment really can get stained.

Snagged.

Stretched a little.

It can develop signs of wear.

In fact, if you regularly use clothing as clothing, it eventually begins to look like clothing.

Outrageous.

There is, however, one small problem.

Not wearing something does not make it immortal.

Materials age.

Colours change.

Elastic fibres lose some of their properties.

Moths have no interest whatsoever in your plans for a special occasion.

And the body that once fitted the garment perfectly has the irritating habit of becoming a slightly different body over time.

Unfortunately, a wardrobe is not a cryogenic chamber.

Although some people clearly use it with similar expectations.

For some reason, we are afraid of signs of life

A new garment is beautiful in its perfection.

Not a crease.

Not a single bit of fluff out of place.

A perfect surface.

As though nobody has ever sat down, laughed, hugged a dog, run for a bus or tried to hold a phone, a handbag and a cup of coffee at the same time.

In other words, nothing human has happened to it yet.

Then comes the first small crease.

The first sign of wear.

The first story.

And suddenly the garment stops looking like something from a shop window.

It becomes yours.

I find the idea that the best possible fate for good clothing is to preserve its retail condition rather strange.

Retail condition is useful when something is still merchandise.

At home, it is no longer merchandise.

It is your clothing.

But it was expensive

All the more reason.

There is a particularly refined form of economy in spending a lot of money on something and then using it as little as possible.

The cost per wear becomes positively aristocratic.

Buy a beautiful jumper for three hundred euros and wear it twice, and it is no longer clothing.

It is an investment in your wardrobe.

The wardrobe, admittedly, will be flattered.

But if you wear a favourite garment often, the cost of each wear gradually becomes much more reasonable.

At some point you discover that the expensive thing you wear constantly has cost you less than half the “cheap” things taking turns being bored on their hangers.

Mathematics occasionally supports pleasure.

A rare act of decency on its part.

But what if something happens to it?

Something will.

Sooner or later.

Things happen to clothes.

Coffee can land on a sleeve.

A bag can rub against the side.

A cat may decide that your new jumper requires its personal contribution.

A handbag clasp can suddenly discover an unexpected talent for lace-making.

None of this is delightful.

But there is a rather large territory between “wear it carefully” and “never wear it at all”.

You can look after it.

Wash it properly.

Store it carefully.

Avoid painting the garden fence in white mohair.

Reasonable caution is a wonderful thing.

Until it turns into museum security.

Some things become better after being lived in

Not physically more perfect.

Better.

A favourite leather bag with soft creases.

Jeans that have finally learned the exact shape of your body.

A jumper that already knows your shoulders.

A scarf carrying a trace of your perfume.

These things acquire a biography.

It is not included in the price.

You have to live it yourself.

A new garment can be beautiful.

A favourite garment is usually already something more than beautiful.

Because you remember where you wore it.

This is especially true of handmade clothes

With handmade pieces, the desire to “preserve” them can reach almost religious levels.

So many hours.

So much work.

That yarn.

Only one of them exists.

You cannot possibly just put it on and walk down the street.

Actually, that is exactly why all of this happened.

Someone chose the yarn.

Combined the colours.

Undid parts.

Made them again.

Counted.

Worked hundreds and thousands of stitches.

And it is unlikely that the ultimate purpose of all that work was to lie beautifully on the top shelf beside a sachet of lavender.

A handmade piece does not become less valuable because it is worn.

Quite the opposite.

Otherwise we end up with a rather peculiar form of respect for craftsmanship: valuing the result so much that we refuse to use it.

Imagine a restaurant where the chef has prepared a magnificent dinner and the guests decide not to eat it.

It looks lovely.

Would be a shame to spoil it.

“I’ll wear it when I lose weight”

Another magnificent variety of eternal storage.

Or when I gain weight.

When I get fitter.

When my hair grows.

When I get a tan.

When that future version of me finally appears and is somehow considered worthy enough for this garment.

The current version can wear something simpler for now.

It is remarkable how easily we hand the best things in our wardrobe over to our future body.

It has done absolutely nothing.

It has not even arrived.

And it already has a wardrobe.

The current body is apparently expected to stand nearby and be understanding about it.

An ordinary Tuesday counts too

This may be the most important part.

You do not need a birthday to wear a favourite garment.

You do not need a restaurant.

You do not need a celebration.

You do not need someone who must be impressed.

You can wear a beautiful jumper on Tuesday.

Simply because Tuesday happened.

You can go for coffee in it.

Work.

Walk.

Sit at home with a book.

Meet a friend.

Live your completely ordinary life.

We actually have far more ordinary days than special ones.

And if our best clothes are reserved exclusively for special occasions, it turns out that we deliberately spend most of our lives in the backup wardrobe.

A curious system of resource allocation.

And what if it eventually gets damaged?

Then you will be sorry.

Of course.

But it will be a garment you actually wore.

Not a perfectly preserved object that waited twenty years for a life that never arrived.

I much prefer a jumper with a carefully repaired story to an immaculate jumper without a single memory.

Clothing can be repaired.

It can be carefully restored.

Sometimes a small mark of time can simply be accepted.

After all, for some reason we allow people, paintings, furniture and entire cities to grow old.

Yet we demand immortality from our favourite jumper.

Rather arrogant of us.

So when should you wear it?

Now.

Not necessarily today if it is thirty degrees outside and we are talking about a thick wool jumper. Common sense is still on the payroll.

But not “someday”.

Not after the perfect event.

Not after the perfect body.

Not after the arrival of the perfect life in which nobody ever spills anything.

A good garment deserves good care.

But it also deserves to be a garment.

To be worn.

To keep you warm.

To appear in photographs.

To travel.

To sit in cafés.

To come home.

To become yours gradually, not because of a receipt, but because of a history.

And if one day it grows old because it has spent many years living with you, that seems rather more worthwhile than remaining young and immaculate in a wardrobe.

Too good to wear?

No.

Too good not to wear.