I have a lot of clothes.
It comes with the territory when your sister is in the apparel business. Old clothes. New clothes. Everything in between. My pants tend to all be the same… especially the pair with the holes in them. And no, that’s not some edgy fashion statement. Years ago, when my cat was a kitten, she used to climb straight up my leg like a tiny, adorable mountaineer. And so the holey pants were born. They stuck around because they’re ridiculously comfortable. Nothing emotional there. They just feel good to wear.
But the shirts… that’s where things get interesting.
I work from home. I do see people, technically, but mostly on Zoom. And Zoom does not give one single care what your shirt looks like. If it’s stained, wrinkled, or has questionable previous salsa involvement, nobody can tell. It’s a head-and-shoulders show.
So on a lot of days, I’ll grab a shirt with a stain on it. Not because I don’t have options. Trust me, I do. My closet could clothe a small community theater troupe. Cute tops. Fun designs. Soft fabrics. Zero stains. But the logic sneaks in anyway: Nobody will see me, so it doesn’t matter. If no one can tell what I am wearing, why waste a nice shirt?
And when you pull on that thread just a little, you hear what it’s really saying: I’ll put in the effort when someone else benefits from it, but when it’s just for me… meh.
That realization stopped me in my tracks. Because the stained shirt doesn’t make my day better. It doesn’t increase comfort. It doesn’t bring joy. It only satisfies the belief that I’m not important enough to dress nicely unless I’m visually “on stage.”
Meanwhile, the holey pants are genuinely a comfort choice. Those earned their keep. They serve me. The shirt? That’s not service. That’s self-dismissal. And it made me wonder how often I treat my life this way.
I save the good stuff for visible moments. I upgrade my energy when other people are watching. I make the “nice” choices only when there’s an audience.
But most of my life is lived off-camera. Most of my meals happen alone. Most of my workdays are just me and my to-do lists. Most of my efforts never get applause. Yet those moments make up the bulk of my existence. If I only deserve care when someone else can see it, what message am I sending myself about my worth?
So now, even on Zoom-only days, I reach for the clean, fun, unstained shirts. Not to impress anyone on camera. Not because it suddenly matters what people think.
But because I’m the one living my life. The person who deserves comfort, care, and a little delight isn’t the audience. It’s me.
And yes… I still wear the pants with holes. The cat made them, and I consider that a collaboration. Also, they really are the comfy ones.