The Things I Do For Love

Looking at my wardrobe, I often wonder if I'm some sort of masochist. Not only are my clothes oftentimes painful, but they make people look at me incredulously as I walk by. Strangers and enemies, any way. Friends and family are used to me by now... or should be.
I have basically two groups of clothing: socks/ underwear and thrift store purchases. Little of my clothing is actually bought new. A few pairs of jeans and a t-shirt or two, but that's about it. I am a self-proclaimed Goodwill junky, as well as the Community Closet, a store near my house I was practically raised in. And yard sales. Can't forget those. I can just imagine myself standing up in a room full of sitting people and saying nervously "Hello, my name is Lizz and I am addicted to other people's clothing." Everybody else robotically replies "Hiiiii, Lizz."
The problem with this is the ridiculous amount of upkeep these clothes often demand. For example, I have absolutely no idea how old my favourite pair of gloves is, as they weren't mine to begin with, I just know that one or the other will constantly have at least one hole. The difficult and usually painful process involved in fixing these holes consists of first turning them inside out, cursing to oneself, threading the tiny needle, more cursing, attempting to align the two halves that need sown together, complaining to anyone who will listen, even if this involves calling someone, shoving the needle through up to four layers of leather, stabbing oneself, cursing some more, and pulling the needle back out. There. There's your first stitch. This is repeated multiple times. Then there's turning the glove back right side out, which is just as hard as turning it inside-out, and finally, being dissatisfied with one's work. Then, do it for the other glove. Do it all over again in about a month.
Do you wanna know the really pathetic part? I very rarely wear them out of the house.
Another example of this constant upkeep is possibly my favourite pair of jeans. They're three years old, and for the first two and a half of the three, they remained uninteresting. Then, one fateful day, my friend wielded her deadly black Sharpie of doom. And with it, wrote the words that would change my jeans' life... across my thigh, in big, bold letters: "SUCK IT." Of course, I could no longer wear these jeans to school in their current insulting state, nor at home. I hate to throw anything away, being the biggest packrat ever, so that was out of the question. So I did the only thing I could do: I cleared a space for them on my floor, laid them down, clutched four Sharpies in my hand, and said "Let's do this thing," a phrase that is almost always the precursor to something monumental in my life lately (whether this monumental thing is good or bad).
A day later, I looked down at the fruits of my labour and now marker-stained hands. Covered in words, pictures, and sequins, they were like a giant collage of what was in my mind... in pants form. As for the immortal first words, I made them look a little like a spiderweb, but you can still read it if you look close enough. For a few days, I didn't wear them. Not only that, I barely touched them. I even scolded myself a few times for breathing on them. I just sat back and basked in their sequined glory. I eventually wore them. All the sequins came off in the first wash, which left me depressed. (I never replaced the sequins as some of it was quite intricate and would be ridiculously difficult to sew on, as they were glued the first time, so that's in silver and blue Sharpie now.)
In case you haven't noticed, Sharpie washes out eventually, so every four or five washes I have to re-ink the whole thing. It takes half an hour to an hour, depending on how exact I'm being. The words aren't so hard, but there's a big bizarre drawing of an eye that I'm pretty sure uses all my Sharpie colours. It takes up half of one leg. It was great the first time, but ever since, one thing has been off every time I rework it. But I love my graffiti jeans to death.
The reason this puzzles me, this obsession with my clothes and keeping them awesome, is because I am self- and not self-proclaimedly one of the laziest people I know. I seldom wear make-up, my hair is usually a dishevelled mess, and I am the only person who truly knows how to successfully navigate my room. (Don't believe other people who say they can!) So why go through all this trouble? Well, like exactly how many licks it takes to get the centre of a Tootsie Roll Pop, or how Ronald Reagan possibly became President, the world may never know.
Then there's the clothes that are actively disintegrating. Besides the belt I stopped wearing because fifty-year-old leather chips off every time I touch it (not pleasant), there are also a few more recent finds. Such as one of my favourite jackets, which I call my "MC Hammer jacket", but has also been referred to as "the disco ball jacket" and "Lizz, what the hell are you wearing?!" It's covered in gold sequins. It even has its own slogan! "It will blow your mind and blind you... at the same time." I can't wear it out into direct sunlight because of the threat it would pose, and I don't want to get sued. I would wear it every day if I could, but two or three fall off every time. Two or three every day would result in a jacket I could wear in direct sunlight, but would also make me feel strangely lonely.
Perhaps the most famous of my "actively disintegrating" clothes are my feather boas, I will surely own more later, but right now I only have purple one and a blue one. I often wear them to school. I relish the weird looks. I have had reactions ranging from the appalled to the confused and everywhere in between.
If you wish to stalk me, you can tell exactly where I've been the trail of bright feathers I leave behind. I have the odd distinction of being able to look down at the floor and say "Man, I'm moulting again."
Then comes the clothing that is actually painful. My short attention span helps me with these. Just when I think I cannot walk any farther in my bronze leather cowboy boots, I look down at them and realize just how shiny they are, which tends to take my mind off things quite effectively, as my friends should know. Also, the clicking noise any pair of my boots make is sufficiently entertaining.
My painful apparel is not only limited to shoes. I have a few jackets that I can only describe as "stifling", and I also own a pair of pants that, if I gained five pounds, I'm almost sure would cut off the circulation in my legs. Oh, they're my favourites.
Then there's the just plain ridiculous things, such as the massive dress that practically takes up a whole closet, so it's hung in the garage, the intricate and sparkly Mercury wings I made for my four-year-old decomposing red Chuck Taylor high-tops, and my many pairs of stiletto heels that never leave the house.
Even if my clothing is a bit outlandish at times, I love it, no matter what you people say. Who else wears aviators to school just because she feels like it? Who else puts on tights and a feather boa just to hang around the house? I was once called "an alien" by a friend's mom because I was wearing a red trenchcoat, leather gloves, and a beret. I take great pride in that fact.
Make fun of me all you want.
You just wish you owned a purple alligator jacket.