Addressing the reality can often be a challenging task, and this challenge seems to escalate as we advance in our years. This isn’t always associated with the natural ageing process that most of us grapple with. It is a part of life, one that’s expected, acknowledged, and embraced, even in the face of the discomforts of our latter years.
As an old saying that has often been inaccurately attributed to Shakespeare goes, “it is what it is”. According to the New York Times, this expression was first used in an article by J E Lawrence in The Nebraska State Journal in 1949. Who am I to dispute this?
However, it’s seldom recognised that with ageing, man’s dimensions also broaden. The battle to admit the need for a reality check, particularly in the realm of apparel, can span years; socks being the only exception. It’s comforting to know that amidst all uncertainties, a few elements remain steadfast: the north star, Kerry football, the family dog, and surely, socks.
The unfortunate reality is that those cherished jackets and once-snug trousers, including the ever so comfortable and much-loved Wranglers, are never going to revert back to their original state. This is due to the shrinkage that has occurred as a result of their routine trips to the laundromat/washing machine/dry cleaner. Even shirts come under this spell, although they seldom last as long.
As is commonly known, regular cleaning leads to the contraction of the garment fabric with unavoidable consequences. Before long, the clothes no longer fit the wearer, causing him to resemble a Duffy’s Circus clown rather than the stylish gent he strives to be and believes he still is, even in spite of the evidence reflected in his own eyes, the mirror, and each shop window he walks by.
With a stern gaze, I recently surveyed my bursting-at-the-seams closet. In a manner as relentless as Margaret Thatcher rejecting ideas from the New Ireland Forum back in 1984, I found myself clutching my once adored jackets, jeans, and trousers, and pronouncing, “departure, departure, departure!” I accumulated them on a nearby chair, with the firm decision of parting from the clutter they had been causing in my room.
In an attempt to mitigate the sadness, I confirmed that they would be in safe hands. I delivered them to a store associated with the Irish Cancer Society, where they would not only help to raise funds but also provide warmth to someone who was less heavyset.
However, this separation was imbued with nothing but melancholy. The word ‘sorrow’ stemming from the old English term ‘sorg’, can be interpreted as grief, regret, or pain.