When I was in high school, it didn’t really dawn on me that someday it would end, and the yearbooks and musty uniforms would be the only physical mementos I would have left of what were some of the best days of my life. Well, the best and the worst, to be fair. What’s adolescence for, if not to show you simultaneously how heart-stoppingly fantastic and soul-crushingly terrible life can be? But I digress.
During my sophomore year, we got really cool shirts for homecoming. Like, the coolest. They were the boldest gold available on the market, and we got the best artist in our school to draw some Ravens (our mascots) having a swell old time for the back. And if that weren’t enough to make them the greatest t-shirts in existence, we also had the names of every single person in our high school printed on them. (I can feel your jealousy emanating through the computer screen, in case you were wondering.)
I wore the life out of that shirt. It was beautiful, and became even more so to me when my family moved across the country the following year. It was a physical memento of some of the best days of my life, as it was always meant to be. In a momentary lapse of judgment, I leant it to a friend who needed a clean shirt after a visit to the beach. She may or may not have been very trustworthy, and never saw it—or her—again. At the time, I was upset. Truthfully, I’m still upset. And that’s the whole point. To this day, I think about that shirt and wish I had it. It seems silly to cling to something as inconsequential as a t-shirt, but that doesn’t change the way I feel about it. And when has objective value ever dictated the sentimental attachment humans feel to their possessions? Never.
Moral of the story: hang onto your t-shirts for dear life. One day you’ll be old like me and you’ll remember how great they were, ever to be tormented by thoughts of how you could have been so irresponsible as to let them slip out of your sight, even for a moment.
Blog post contributed by: BH