WHEN I LAST PURCHASED NEW CLOTHES is beyond my recall. I regard that as a very good thing. It is one of the many blessings of retirement. I could likely have filled a small men’s clothing store with all the work clothes I had to fit myself out with over the years: suits, dress shirts, ties, nice shoes. (If only I had the waist I had at the beginning.) Now I have one suit hanging in my closet. There should be a small sign pinned to it: FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY. My daily wear consists of shorts, t-shirts, and huaraches. Sweatpants for going out which, under those sloppy circumstances, won’t be anywhere special. “Beware of all enterprises,” wrote Thoreau in Walden, “that require new clothes.” Of course, he was living in the woods at the time, but so what? Being a bit of a recluse even before the pandemic, I have not been inconvenienced by the prospect of staying at home. The latest onslaught of the Delta variant only confirms the need to stay put and hunker down with a good book. When I’m ready to add to my library, I do it on-line through the endless queue of used book stores that sell their wares through Amazon. Or, if I decide to pull Thoreau’s Walden back off my shelf for another look, I know that the author wouldn’t mind my casual, worn attire.
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Ostomy Memories of New Clothes
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