I’m a bit of a messer, when I drink I black out and I’m perfectly comfortable living in relative squalor before attempting to clean.
As a consequence of that last point I tend to hoard clothes longer than I should. Wardrobe audits are few and far between. And each time I have completed the audit I have had a battle of conscience about one particular item of clothing — my Playboy shirt, a once-awesome short-sleeved shirt emblazoned with Playboy covers that I purchased in Toronto in June 2000.
At the time it took me four days to decide whether or not to fork out $96 on it, considering I only had a couple of hundred dollars and no job. But it became a shirt of legend that summer and even got me and seven mates into a VIP Elle party (that’s another story altogether).
It was like the mascot of our summer. When I wore it out it became a talking point for anyone in the clubs and I got some serious action in that shirt.
My wife, whom I met in Toronto, was never its biggest fan. I know! Weird right? Maybe it is because the shirt reminds her of Tracey, the woman I had relations with for the whole summer. I was wearing it the night I bagged the lady who my mates still describe as a Gloria Estefan lookalike.
But I’m with Sarah now for 15 years. We are married. Two kids. She has nothing to worry about. So why do I have to get rid of the shirt? It’s a classic and it brings back amazing memories.
F**k it. I’m keeping it. At least until the next audit in 2018. Good chat.