a minor conundrum in polyester
What to do with decommissioned uniform shirts? After nearly seven years of continuous service, my old French blue uniform shirts are obsolete. I no longer work for the agency that issued them, and now that Holy Name has finally received its new winter shirts, my old ones are expressly forbidden.
I am astonished that the shirts have held up as well as they did. I have only ever thrown one out, and that was for decon purposes, along with the pants, boots and belt I was wearing at the time. (That particular job deserves its own post.) However, while they remain intact, they are far from new, and they are embroidered with my last name. It would easily take me an hour per shirt to take out the stitches with a seam ripper, and the results would be a poor return on the time investment. So donating them to current JCMC employees is out.
In the absence of a way to remove the name and leave the shirt wearable, I see no other viable choice than to toss them. I think that I'll also toss the half dozen paramedic patches I salvaged off old summer shirts last year. They are also intact, but they show where the shirt sleeve crease had been ironed in a couple hundred times. This isn't the Second World War, and there is no shortage of nylon; women aren't using eye pencil to create the illusion of stocking seams. Why the hell did I hold onto this stuff?
I am relentlessly sensible about a lot of things. A steady routine of address changes does not leave room for holding onto much for sentimental purposes. It still seems wrong, somehow, to just shitcan the stuff. I could blame my New England ancestry if it were frugality, but it's not. It's much closer to superstition. What still resonates in those shirts that can't be pressed out with an iron or picked out with a seam ripper?
I am astonished that the shirts have held up as well as they did. I have only ever thrown one out, and that was for decon purposes, along with the pants, boots and belt I was wearing at the time. (That particular job deserves its own post.) However, while they remain intact, they are far from new, and they are embroidered with my last name. It would easily take me an hour per shirt to take out the stitches with a seam ripper, and the results would be a poor return on the time investment. So donating them to current JCMC employees is out.
In the absence of a way to remove the name and leave the shirt wearable, I see no other viable choice than to toss them. I think that I'll also toss the half dozen paramedic patches I salvaged off old summer shirts last year. They are also intact, but they show where the shirt sleeve crease had been ironed in a couple hundred times. This isn't the Second World War, and there is no shortage of nylon; women aren't using eye pencil to create the illusion of stocking seams. Why the hell did I hold onto this stuff?
I am relentlessly sensible about a lot of things. A steady routine of address changes does not leave room for holding onto much for sentimental purposes. It still seems wrong, somehow, to just shitcan the stuff. I could blame my New England ancestry if it were frugality, but it's not. It's much closer to superstition. What still resonates in those shirts that can't be pressed out with an iron or picked out with a seam ripper?
