When I open my closet door in the morning, the clothes within squint their eyes in response to the sudden appearance of light glaring from the bedroom’s ceiling fan. The moment my silhouette is discerned, they gasp and recoil in fear. As I browse my selection, the slacks cower together and pray to their fabric God to finally be out of style, and the “slim”-fit button down shirts quiver while avoiding my eye contact.
I begin to pull a pair of jeans from the plastic hanger over which it drapes. Its repeated “no” grows in volume and celerity as it panics in response to its impending doom, screaming for the other clothes to intervene; however, they remain limp and still, unable to do anything but helplessly observe their denim acquaintance’s abduction. The end of its belt loop snags onto the corner of the hanger. “I don’t want to go; I don’t want to go,” I almost hear it cry.
I apply a hearty tug, the jeans fall free of its hanger, and I shut the closet door.
Within the dark and silent closet, the other clothes are treated to the jeans’ macabre cacophony of bellowing shrieks and cries of pain from the torture I apply by squeezing it over my expanded waist. Some of the newer clothes cringe as they visualize the grotesque strain of the jeans’ material as I struggle with securing the button into the hemmed slit on the other side of my no-longer-32-inch waist.
At this point, the jeans are silent as it has since passed out as a result of the extraordinary pain and trauma.
It wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, not too long ago, my clothes weren’t afraid of being worn. They fit beautifully against my frame. They lived for the compliments. Nowadays, however, the frame on which they are worn has grown and, therefore, are putting a lot of strain on their seams.
I can resolve my clothing’s nightmare by choosing one of two options: resume my habit of eating right & going to the gym or buy a new wardrobe. I must decide soon because it breaks my heart to know that I am torturing my clothes.
At the end of the day, the jeans are returned to the closet. Its spent body tossed into the hamper directly below its rack of brethren. The jeans quietly cries to itself, relieved to have lived to see another day but yet worried that casual Friday will come again soon.
This is what I imagine.
by Cary Vaughn (2014)