Hangered Perfection
What cleaning out my closet taught me about the man I’m becoming
All of this has a purpose. It is my job to find it.
My hands are engulfed in textures and patterns, the temperature in the room building as if each neglected piece of clothing adds a degree.
It is important to remember that I have been doing this for a long time. Styles change. I slide into a pair of mustard-ish cropped Nike golf pants that were, at one time or another, my favorite.
I can still make anything work. I am not the type of person who buys trends. I have a real wardrobe, not just a pile of trends and targeted ads.
It is incredible how wasteful people are, I think, as I sort through piles of clothes with the tags and extra buttons still attached.
There is nothing wrong with any of this. Almost all of it is still good. None of it was a waste.
I mean, you are a sick fucking person.
I throw camp-collar shirts into the air like some sort of demonic Gatsby. Who in their right mind buys this many camp-collar shirts?
I feel sweat beading on my forehead. Every time I turn my head, she turns the AC to eco mode. Does she not understand how fat I have gotten? No man my size can be cooled by eco mode.
This is a hopeless endeavor.
I mean, what kind of grown man owns this much clothing?
I stand at the summit of a mountain of knitwear that should have been used for a down payment but is instead a reminder of my failure and fluctuations.
You are a sheep, adding to cart anything your soft hands can reach.
You sit behind a desk all day. Why do you own so much workwear?
“Yo, what are you selling on these days? I feel like Grailed is dead.”
EVERYTHING MUST GO!
Okay, so everything being sold goes on the left. Donations on the right. Things being kept go on the bed.
The bed disappears before I make it to outerwear.
If you love it and it does not fit, put it in the storage pile. Most of these pants are just a few good sweats away.
You have had a lot of this stuff for years. You would have spent the money on something else anyway. The money is not gone. It is just wrinkled.
Why do you have so many collabs? You are too old for collabs. One man’s shame is another man’s grail.
They’re still good. You just do not look good in hoodies.
Once I get all of this sold, it will pay for the storage unit and then some.
You are clearing room for new things. More you things.
You are going to be a dad. You do not need ALD.
You need a forever wardrobe.
How did it get this bad? When did it get this bad?
Six hours in, and the hardwood is still a distant memory. When am I even going to have time to post all of this crap? No one is going to want this.
I walk over and drop the AC another two degrees as I unearth a pile of District Vision that should have gone into the S&P.
Man, you really let yourself go.
When was the last time you even thought about going for a run? You should charge your Garmin. There is no way you are going to find the charger right now.
Could you even run a mile if you tried?
I pull on the outrageously priced Satisfy x Our Legacy collab I bought for some future running accomplishment and think about the blind ambition I had when I bought it—the arrogance of a man barely running sub-ten-minute miles to own such a thing.
The last race I ran was the NYC Half. I went from the finish line to the hospital.
My dad died that day.
Man, I miss my dad.
What kind of dad will I be? The kind who uses purchases to avoid problems, burying the evidence of faraway realities in the depths of my closet until it overflows?
I stand there dressed like a parade-float run-club member in the ashes of all the men I thought I would become.
I can afford to donate these.
A pile of long-forgotten shirts becomes barely worn clothes for donation. Some things are better given than sold, especially the ones I sweat in.
Still far from done, the opulence parts just enough to expose the slightest ray of hardwood.
All of these clothes will have a purpose, even if it is not with me.
I love clothes too much to have a forever wardrobe. No doubt I will delude myself into thinking the next pair of pants will fix me.
The pursuit of hangered perfection will never end.
Nothing I bury in the closet is going to start fitting, no matter how much I liked the way it looked on someone else or who I planned to be in twelve weeks.
The man I am becoming needs the room more than all the men I thought I would be.
I load up the donations and post past lives for sale. There is no shame in passing along the hope.
I keep the Satisfy collab.
I should probably start running again.
-SP
What’s the one thing in your closet you just can’t get rid of?