The past comes back to people in peculiar ways. The feeling of warm sheets against my skin as I unload the dryer takes me back to when I was little and my mom would wrap them around me after doing laundry. When I see blue eye shadow I think about my grandmother, eyes closed, sitting in front of her bathroom mirror waiting for me to do her makeup. The smell of gilled chicken carries me back to a summer evening years ago when I sat barefoot out on the side porch and watched as my dad tried his hand at grilling. I have millions of other memories like these, but the weird thing is that I can barely remember any of them unless I think back to what I was wearing when they happened.
My mind is a closet; inside memories hang like clothes. The day my grandfather died is a white crochet dress. It is the same dress that I wore a year before on a date with my boyfriend to Olive Garden. Since then the smell of breadsticks and hospital sterilization has faded, but I still can’t bring myself to wear it again. For now, it hangs in the back of my closet, tucked away behind other outfits that remind me of happier moments.
One of these moments is my first concert. I’m sure a lot of people remember their first. It’s hard to forget, but I don’t know how many people could tell you exactly what they wore. 10 years ago I went to see the Dropkick Murphys play. I remember mentally preparing an outfit in the days leading up to the concert. I had to wear something that would make me look cool. So, naturally I decided on a black jacket, purple skinny jeans, and checkered converse sneakers. Later, while being pushed around in my first mosh pit by people that were twice my age I silently thanked God for my shoe choice. It was winter, and I had thought my furry black North Face was a good idea, until someone spilled a beer down my arm. The next day I went to put it on again before quickly tearing it off; the fur was crunchy and it reeked of beer and stale smoke. Oddly though this didn’t bother me; I looked at it more as a souvenir from the concert. There are no pictures to document this night, yet I know for a fact that this is what I wore.
I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me. My boyfriend still looks at me in shock every time I remind him what he and I both wore on our first date three years ago.
“How do you remember that?” he asks.
“I remember everything.” I tell him very seriously.
He gives a nervous laugh. I’m kidding of course. I don’t remember everything. I mean, come on, I’m not crazy. I just remember almost everything I’ve ever worn, and some of what he’s worn. In my defense though he was wearing black basketball shoes as dress shoes. It’s hard to forget that fashion statement, no matter how hard I try.
When I think about it I’m not surprised that I can remember what I was wearing on big nights like my first concert or my first date. Every detail of those nights is burned into my brain. I think it surprises me more though when I can recall what I was wearing on nights that weren’t supposed to matter. Two and half years ago my friends and I twirled around a basement belting out “Come on Eileen.” It was just like every other time we had ever gone out, but I remember this time feeling completely happy. I expected that night to be lost somewhere in our drunken haze, but for some reason I remember the way the concrete felt on my bare feet and the way my skirt and bow bandeau bounced as I spun around. That is one of the moments that I continually push towards the front of my closet.
I hope that as the years go on and I accumulate more memories my head does not get so cluttered with outfits that I can't still pull out some of my favorites.
