The Question has arisen, raised by my wife.

It was innocent enough, oh, it’s always innocent enough. But knowing her…I was expecting, even anticipating, The Question.

It came today after I put on my coat. I call it vintage. She, however, said, “Honestly, honey, I know you love that coat, but don’t you think you should give it to charity? It’s worn and faded. You’ve had it for twenty-five years.”

Old and faded? “No, I love it.” And she was exaggerating. “For your information, I’ve only had it twenty-two years. I bought it on sale at Macy’s in the Sunnyvale Town Center when we were stationed at Onizuka in 1994.”

“Okay, twenty-two years. It’s still really faded.”

“Its worn fabric provides it with vintage character.”

Her eyebrows went up as she broke into a questioning grin. “Vintage character?”

“Yes.”

I stand by my declaration. I don’t plan to give it up. I don’t easily give up my goods. Underwear, sweatshirts, shoes, shirts, coats, pants, I wear them until  they’re clearly too small or begin disintegrating.

And I’m serious: they disintegrate. I was once wearing a pair of shorts, put something in my pocket, and torn the pocket. The cloth just ripped. I was so depressed. I’d only had the shorts twelve years. I looked for replacement shorts but never found a pair just like them.

My wife is clearly the arbiter of these matters for me. Not too long ago, she held up a pair of boxer shorts and sniffed. “Do you really want to keep these?”

I was affronted. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Really? The colors are faded, the elastic band just came off in my hands, the seam is coming apart at the crotch, and you have a hole in the rear.” She held them up higher. “They’re so worn, I can see through them. They’re like sheer curtains.”

I doubted her. I’d just worn those boxers in the last several days. “Let me see.”

She was absolutely correct, of course. All those small details she’d noticed about these old Hanes boxer shorts were true. (I believe they’re Hanes, but the label was gone.)  I’d noticed them, as well. I knew that these boxers would start dropping down my legs when I walked after I put them on. I laughed every time I saw their dilapidated condition.

I sighed, cringed and swallowed, bracing myself to issue the answer to The Question: “Yes, you can throw them away.”

Grabbing them from my hand, she hustled away. “I’m going to get rid of these now, before you change your mind.”

She didn’t even give me time to say good-bye.

This is not an economic practice on my part. Nor is that I love these things. They’re familiar and comfortable, like an enjoyable book, a favorite food or wonderful friends. These things are woven into my fabric of my memories and the essence of my being. I like remembering the past, not to hold onto it, but to understand it and myself, and measure the future. It’s only by looking at the past and understanding what didn’t go as planned that I can change things so they’ll be better in the future.

Elaborate rationalization? Sure, it could be. These goods I don’t give up might just be emotional crutches to remind me of glory days and better times. It could be that what you’re thinking and what I’m claiming are all correct, that it’s necessary to hold these competing ideas in our minds and accept, both are right.

All I know is, this was but round one. The Question will arise again.