By Ashley Branam

     It had to happen sometime. The first major marital disaster put an awful end to another cold Saturday of handing out cider samples. I washed an ink pen.

     I normally check pockets before I toss clothes into the washing machine, but I never put anything in my jacket pocket except my keys and I knew I’d already taken those out. But that afternoon I’d stuffed the UTC alumni pen into my pocket after filling in my time sheet and forgot all about it. At least until I got my clothes out of the drier. I don’t know why I didn’t notice the dark blue splotches all over our shirts when I transferred them from the washer. I guess I’m just not conditioned to check the clothes between machines. Plus wet clothes are bunched and wadded and several shades darker than when dry. But it’s hard not to notice ink stains when you hold up an article of clothing to put it on a hanger.

     Joe noticed it, too. He wasn’t overly hostile about it, mostly, I think, because my clothes suffered more insults. His shirts look like he lost a fencing match to a person holding a pen. Mine—except for the jacket that caused the problem—look more like the victims of a paintball battle. The jacket barely has a blotch on it. We spent the worse part of an hour cleaning ink out of the drier.

     The ordeal is a testimony, however, to just how fragile clothing is. Not that something could ruin it without warning and we should be thankful everyday for what we have because it is that season after all, but that there is only a certain range of degrees in which blemished clothing is acceptable. If your shirt has one spot smaller than button, it’s okay for the general public, possibly okay for work depending on what that is. Having two small spots is acceptable for emergency trips into town. More than two small spots or even one large spot, though, and you can’t be seen in it.

     According to the rules of logic, our clothes are still completely wearable. They haven’t shrunk, the fabric isn’t unfashionably torn, and there are no giant holes through which parts that ought to remain hidden are shamelessly visible. They’re just splotchy. It defies logic to condemn a perfectly good t-shirt to nothing more than yard work status because of a few (or several) unwanted ink stains. But people don’t wear splotchy clothes in polite company unless they are painters buying more supplies at Lowes. Even I’ve been socialized enough to feel that way.

     Clothing is either a means of identification or self-expression, depending on the context. And unless your identification is artist or your self-expression is cheap homemade tie-dye t-shirts, splotchy clothing isn’t okay. I’m not that kind of artist, and I have a general disregard for all things tie-dye. Thus, as illogical as it is, most of that load of laundry is now a heap in our closet floor, where it will be left untouched until something messy, like painting, needs to be done, as if we didn’t have enough work clothes already.

     Socialization never ceases to amaze me.  

     Ashely