Wearing life vicariously

It all started innocently enough.

"I really need to clean out my wardrobe before I move. And since you have already stolen several of my T-shirts, you may as well have these too..."

My roommate Kate is leaving for NM in a couple of weeks. In anticipation of her move, and to avoid the crippling anxiety she experiences with each flight to pastures new, she began the long process of trash-and-pack about a month ago. The customary yearly donation to St Vinnies was about to take place, and to make the bag lighter (and keep my wallet heavier) I took a bundle of shirts off her hands.

Later that week, as I strolled down to lunch one day, someone complimented me on my nice brick red T with a stylistic Asian sun on the front.

"Yeah, its from Miss Saigon's run in Minneapolis." I replied proudly. I looked good in this particular shirt. It was a great fit, and did a particularly convincing job of making me look belly free.

"Oh, that's a great show - I love that scene where she cries on the floor..." the shirt admirer continued. Obviously enjoying her sudden Broadway flashback, she looked to me to share in her excitement and commence an exchange of our Miss Saigon experiences.

At this point I had a choice to make. Did I let this person know I was a massive fraud, and that I had actually only come into possession of the shirt through my inherent Scottish cheapness? Or did I try and fake my way through some synopsis of the show based on the names of the various movements of the Miss Saigon suite I had played in band when I was 14? A bead of sweat appeared on my temple as I vacillated.

"Oh, I actually stole it from a friend. I have never seen the show, but I've heard it is intense and beautiful."

Weak. The only word that came to mind after the words left my mouth. The woman's eyes drifted momentarily toward the ground, suddenly embarrassed for me at the realization my culturaly enriching theater visit was entirely fictional.

"Well, you really should see it you know..." she commented, as their eyes came back to my shirt, and then my face. Her embarrassment had transformed into annoyance. "Its a masterpiece." With that, we parted ways, and I felt the need to cover myself as if to hide the lie I literally wore across my chest.

A few days later, I wore another one of Kate's hand-me-downs as I walked along State St. Minding my own business, I was hanging outside the poster store wondering if the 3 by 5 Hokusai in the window would look good above my bed despite the fact I couldn't afford a frame to encase it. A girl rushed by me, looking purposeful and in rather a hurry. In the corner of my eye I noticed her make a double take, and her do curt twirl and begin to walk backwards. A voice broke through my musing and said

"I went to St Olaf's!"

At first I had no idea why the woman felt the need to share that with me. Maybe she had some complex form of Tourettes, one of her tics manifesting itself as a compulsive, guttural sharing of boring information.

"That's cool."

Then I realized she was staring at my chest, where the word "CARLETON" was emblazoned across my banana yellow shirt in large, blue letters. Situated in Northfield, MN, a fair number of my friends in Madison had attended Carleton College. Being from Scotland, I obviously had not.

"Oh right, St Olaf's is in Northfield too!" I said, finally making some kind of connection.

However, in doing so, I immediately came upon the same dilemma once again - to furnish a tale, or tell the sad truth and look like a loser. The next words I spoke came as no great surprise.

"I didn't go to Carleton - I stole this shirt from a friend."

Again, I received the double take and the look of slight miscomprehension. Followed by that moment movie directors love to stretch out so that the audience can catch up if need be - realization. Her face belied understanding, and she offered me that look of pity that suggested "I am sorry you are so boring that you have to steal your stories and identity form a friend." I again bowed my head, again felt rather pathetic, and again wished I was wearing one of my boring shirts with no shareable experience or Kodak moment described upon it.

However, I realized that this was actually where my problem lay. Most of my shirts are stolen or used in some way. The pink shirt I didn't buy at Mall of America, or the Prairie Walls staff T I didn't get to wear a the shifts I didn't work. The Cambodia T-shirt that my friend's roommate also has, that I didn't buy while bumming around Bangkok as he did. Or the Crazy Legs T shirt I didn't get to sport as I didn't cross the finish line at Camp Randall. All my shirts are records of stories I didn't hear, experiences I never had or challenges I never faced. My cheapness and slight cleptomania have resulted in my only possessing about four T's I actually bought new. I am living my life vicariously through other peoples clothes, and showing the world a level of culture and life experience I have absolutely no claim to.

Some days, it just makes me feel like a huge phoney.

Tonight was the Willy St Co-op members party. Free food and beer, along with some live music and community spirit, were provided by the good staff at the co-op as a thank you for our customer loyalty and investment. I felt like a treasured family member, and wallowed in the feeling of belonging. Which I felt entirely entitled to do, seeing as I spent $9 on a honeydew melon there only yesterday.

I sat at the table, tongue slipping out in concentration, smothering my organic bratwurst in organic mustard, trying not to get any on the organic bun. Across the table sat a wonderfully Willy St family, complete with Patagonia tank tops, Gramicci pants and that faint odor of patchouli. After smuggling glances at me for a few minutes, the woman leaned across the table and inquired

"Has the AIDS cycle been and gone already?"

I was wearing a long sleeve, burnt sienna shirt covered in AIDS ride logos. Which of course, I had picked up at an end-of-line T-shirt sale at a community fest a few days earlier.

"Yeah," I replied. "It finished a few days ago. I didn't ride in it though."

I paused for a second, deliberating, before continuing;

"But I volunteer for AIDS network, and we were astounded by the amount of money raised. Over $300,000! The ride went through a whole bunch of little towns in Southern WI, and people turned out to cheer. It was awesome!"

The lady looked pleased, and congratulated me on my involvement.

Of course, I neither volunteer for AIDS network, nor know anything about the rides route. I assembled what little information I offered from various news reports and emails I had received about the event. A man at OutReach had mentioned the total raised, so I threw it out there to lend credence to my tale. I had just told a massive, barefaced lie, to this complete stranger. And after I did I sat there, glowing in the good feeling that not doing all that volunteer work gave me. I hadn't done a service to my community, and it felt fantastic.

Feeling like sad little man with no life of your own isn't fun for long. Sometimes, its nice to talk to random strangers about topics inspired by your current garment. Sometimes, its fun to embellish tales of events your friends attended, claiming their life as your own. Anyway, how are these people supposed to know I didn't do any of these things?

After all, I had the T-shirt, and that proves I was there - right??