I can be both a sentimental and lazy person. This personality combination yields a home packed with the debris of a mundane life. Open any closet and you'll find jars of loose change, childhood toys, used books, novelty mugs, empty binders, travel sized bottles of shampoo, and electronic accessories for gadgets I no longer own -- items that really won't come in handy one day.
I find it particularly difficult to part with clothing that I have enjoyed wearing but no longer suits me. Sometimes the issue is that the clothing is laughably dated (pleated jeans). At other times, the clothing no longer fits. The top button of my pants once popped off while I was speaking to my secretary. I hoped she hadn't noticed until she handed me a baby pin and winked. Most often, however, I fail to throw out clothing that is so worn that it is no longer structurally sound. This lack of discipline inevitably leads to moron tax.
A few weeks ago, I pulled out a western style shirt I had not worn in a long time. It was dark blue with a tasteful flower print and pearly snap buttons down the front. I put it on and was pleased to see it not only fit well, but was flattering to my figure. I briefly wondered why I had tucked it so far in the back of my closet, but dismissed it as oversight and went off to work. That morning, a co-worker came into my office to share gossip. During the conversation I got excited over a point I was trying to make. To emphasize the firmness my opinion, I put my hands on my hips and threw back my shoulders as I stated it. Just at that moment, the structural defect of my shirt revealed itself. The middle snap on my shirt -- the one at the chest -- burst open to reveal my bra and its contents.
Through years of wearing the shirt, I had pulled apart the snaps so often that they were no longer sufficiently resistant. The slightest tug on the fabric undid the snaps. I must have concluded this a while ago when I placed the shirt so far back into my closet. Of course, when I first discovered the shirt's flaw I should have discarded it. Instead, my hoarding tendencies got the better of my judgment, and the old shirt became a ticking time bomb of moron tax for my future, forgetful self.
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