I know I get attached to my clothes.

Sometimes it can be quite literal, as like most dudes, I would wear my favourite clothing until it disintegrates off my body.

Indeed, to the chagrin of my wife, I have an assortment of clothing that really should not be seen outside. Some items in particular could not even scrape by being classified as “painting clothes”. From utterly abused Carhartts to completely faded T-shirts, this was the sort of collection that even the “Sally Ann” would be skeptical about taking.

What can I say? I’m a slave to comfort, not to fashion.

Cripes, I have a catalogue of T-shirts from online webcomics that I rotate through with my Green Lantern one. I’d likely make Tim Gunn cry. If a spot on Style By Jury came my way, I should take it.

For years, I used to troll the thrift stores, on the hunt for used pieces of wardrobe that, apparently, I was too lazy to break in myself if I had bought them new.

And I might have been a little cheap. But again, most dudes will likely choose beer or boxers, any day. Am I right, eh boys? Don’t leave me hangin’!

I’d hold on to tattered clothing like unique museum pieces. Every item had its tale.

There was my treasured glow-in-the-dark T-shirt from the 2000 “Abduct and Release” UFO Conference in Skagway. It spoke of the excitement of the coming Y2K and, in particular, of how many obscure groups were suddenly getting thrown money as “millennium grants”.

(Those were some good times, eh UFO Yukon?)

Others I’d keep around for their sheer comfort value.

I guarantee you, that you, the reader, have a particular set of clothing you set aside for the very particular purpose of covering your body after a long day at work. Whether your lazy Sunday PJs or that Northern Reflections loon sweater, from your aunt, that you have no idea what else to do with.

Everybody’s got comfort clothes.

Every Saturday morning I usually reach over for the same shirt. From a habit of having lived in a trailer with lousy insulation, I needed a more durable kind of cartoon-watching garb. My trusty long-sleeved shirt (from the 1995 Frostbite Music Festival) to the rescue!

Countless tales of milk-sodden Mini-Wheats in the weaves of it’s fabric, lemme tell ya.

These, admittedly crappy, pieces of clothing are pieces of our past. And the more brain cells I continue to confuse as I get older, it’s nice to know that I’ll be able to remind myself that I saw a great King Cobb Steelie concert.

It’s right on the back of the shirt.

Living in cold places makes you naturally attached to your clothing. Obviously one gets pretty attached to their winter jacket, up North. No matter how much moose blood might be covering that parka, it’s gotten you through many an awesome winter and you’d like for it to continue to do so.

Hmm. You know …

I might just be scrambling to avoid having to buy a new winter jacket.

Or I’m high-fiving your inner-coziness. You decide.