If you’re ever in the position to borrow clothes from me (which you won’t be, not ever, but play along) you’ll notice that the contents of my closet are almost universally devoid of any labels or tags of any kind.
This is because
a) I’ve been doing laundry for more than twenty years with a pretty decent track record of not ruining anything despite my unwavering belief that separating lights and darks is for pussies (and of course by unwavering belief I mean I’m too lazy to bother)
b) clothing tags are the scratchy, lumpy, intolerable work of Satan.
I mean, it has to be Satan, right? Who else would even be capable of evil of this magnitude?
Satan: “Let’s design a sweater made from the most luxurious, silky cashmere available.”
Satan’s Minions: “That sounds uncharacteristically decent of you, Master.”
Satan: “And print the washing label on sandpaper.”
Satan’s Minions:“…there we go.”
And what am I suffering for? Your brand name? “DRY CLEAN ONLY” in 26 different languages? “Don’t iron this unless you like your synthetic fabrics surrealist and melty”?
Come on, fashion industry. If the shirt on my back is going to do its damnedest to erode said back, you could at least make it worth my while. How about you tell me something really useful about my clothes for a change?
Here’s a few ideas to get you started.
“This fabric will develop accordion-like wrinkles the moment you sit down, and stay wrinkled until either this article of clothing is destroyed or time ceases to exist.”
This would have been great to know in advance about, like, 90% of my work clothes.
“Our tags like to stick up out of your collar with the same frenzied enthusiasm as a dog poking its head out a car window. Don’t bother trying to tuck them back in. They just want to see the world!”
This belongs on literally every t-shirt Nutty Hubby owns, but I’m the one that suffers. He never notices or cares because he’s the sane(-r) one in this relationship, so it’s left up to me to either be *that* person who keeps reaching over to tuck his tags back in, or else exercise self-restraint and leave them be, at the small personal expense of dying a little inside.
“After a dozen or so washings it will become painfully apparent that we have used two totally different dye lots for the sleeves and the torso of this seemingly monochromatic shirt. Be amazed as the colors evolve with the passage of time and cleanliness! It’s like magic!”
WHY. Oh, wait, there’s a postscript: “Because fuck you, that’s why.”
“Warning: clothing article contains the scratchiest wool that ever wooled. Wear directly next to the skin at own itchy risk.”
True fact: all wool is secretly steel wool.
“We sewed this swimsuit with sturdy invisible thread so the stitches wouldn’t show and also so the trimmed ends would stick out annoyingly and constantly jab you in sensitive areas. We figured you’d like that, because let’s face it, you probably went and got a Brazilian wax just to wear this thing so it’s fair to assume you’re at least a little bit of a masochist.”
I legit thought I was going crazy the first time this happened to me. Funny story: people look at you weird when you keep clutching at your crotch and screaming “WHAT THE HELL IS STABBING ME?!” on a crowded beach.
“Fun fact: you can’t spell ‘elastic’ without ‘last’. Which reminds us, the crappy elastic we used in this underwear won’t last a month! Get it? Haha, language is the greatest sometimes.”
Thongs for nothing, assholes.
“The dyes used in this garment
may will definitely bleed slightly like a slasher movie victim when wet and/or rub off on you and everything you love and possibly some things you don’t even get that close to don’t question it we don’t in fact we don’t really know how any of this works we are one with the dye now ALL HAIL DYE LORD.”
I’ll take “things I would have loved to have been told before that time I got caught in a freak summer rainstorm wearing that cheap indigo blue tank top” for $200, Alex.
“You’ll never get these seams to lay flat again, ever.”
I give up. Nudist colony it is.