Threadless
I never wear regular t-shirts. This isn’t a principle of mine - not as such - as time and time again I will put one on, scrutinise myself in a mirror, but then for some reason remove said garment. What is it that this long, hard look reveals? Do I find the format bland, is it that I fear compromising my femininity, or does the t-shirt empathise parts of my body that I find less agreeable? Maybe I can’t find the right trousers to wear them with. I don’t really know. It wouldn’t even be a problem if it weren’t for the fact that I have two drawers full.
That’s right.
I have bought a band-shirt at almost every concert I have ever been to (not counting festivals, as that would have financially ruined me). In the past I have unsubscribed from the threadless newsletter no less than three times, in desperate attempts to avoid temptation; to no avail. Surf site - sign up - give in - add to cart.
They’re just so damn funny. And clever, and quirky, and witty, and so much “all about me!” (in the voice of Dylan Moran, comedian) I never buy the ones with brand names printed on them, odd halves of Shakespearian quotes or generic heraldry (I have got this one though). The shirts with zombie diagrams, cute monsters or a tiny, twee pop-cultural reference in invisible ink on the other hand… They are as much a uniform of nerdkind as oversized, shiny polyester-mix shirts can be said to characterise gangsta’s, or black and red stripes define what we label the emo-genre - and I know that we all express our identity by what we wear - but I still believe that my shirts are awsome and that the other shirts suck. (Because they are more intelligent? Elitist, anyone?)
I’m fascinated by how dependent we are on our group identities. Even up to the point where it becomes economically unsound. It’s not that I’m particullary proud of my shirts, that I bradish my belonging to this or that sub-group by wearing them - because I don’t. I’m quite embarrassed by my shopping sprees. And I eventually end up using my t-shirts as night wear…
