The Breakup Shirt
Like most people, I have a favorite shirt.
My favorite shirt is a blue and white plaid button-down with a yellow stripe. The colors remind me of Belle's two main outfits from Beauty and the Beast, which helps me channel my Inner (okay, Outer) Bookish Idealist. My favorite shirt is a little too big, but in a look-how-cute-that-small-woman-is way, not a she-found-that-on-the-street way. It looks like I stole it from a boyfriend. Specifically, this boyfriend:
I've had some great times in this shirt.
That's me and my favorite shirt drinking hot chocolate in Ireland. Bags under eyes and awkward smile can be achieved through the miracle of jetlag.
Here's me and my favorite shirt dressed as Marty McFly on Halloween, when I met and bonded with the Irish friends who made my study abroad time the best. I already owned all parts of this costume. Time-travel is my destiny.
Here's me and Madeline and my favorite shirt on the beach. I'm reading about the Rwandan genocide (from the book that Emily's friends are calling "not a beach read" and "is that the only book you brought" and "stop reading the statistics out loud, you're bumming us out"). Notice my shirt doing the Lord's work of keeping my white stomach from blinding innocent beachgoers on spring break.
I've had so many great times in that shirt. It makes me feel comfortable and cute and safe and smart. It looks great buttoned up with a sweater over it or open with a t-shirt under it. I've had it since senior year of high school and still no holes, rips, or tears. It's my go-to shirt for day-tripping and lazing around and napping and adventuring.
Last spring, I almost threw it away.
It began when a cleaning kick inspired me to go through my closet and get rid of a lot of my clothes. I want to be very clear here: I was not cleaning because The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up told me to. I know that people love that book , but just between you and me, Marie Kondo's sort of a quack, right? Only keep the things that bring you joy? I literally cannot afford to keep tossing out tampons and textbooks. Like my close personal friend Mindy Kaling says, "I tried that Japanese decluttering trend where you hold each thing you own, and throw it out if it doesn’t give you joy. I threw out all my vegetables and the electric bill.” My decluttering was strictly American; in my massive closet, I had run out of room. It was time for The Purge: Outfit Management.
Cleaning out my closet was liberating. I gleefully discarded shorts I'd never worn, pants I'd never liked, shirts that made my torso look weird. White trash sacks overflowed with self-conscious moments. Is this top shaped weird, or is my body? Will people notice that stain? Is this too loose under the arms? It doesn't matter, toss it in the bag! Tomorrow is another day! A day in which you wear clothes that look good, clothes that fit! Adios, shirt made for a 4'11'' girl! You shan't haunt this tallish torso any longer! Au revoir, baggy dress with vertical stripes! No belt could ever work hard enough to make you fit! Sayonara, wool shorts! What season are you even for?
Then I came across my favorite shirt.
Without hesitation, I snatched it off of the hanger and threw it in the trash bag with all the other "To Donates."
Who knows why? Maybe it was the buzz of self-esteem from tossing out clothes that made me look weird, or the high quality of the shirts on either side of it, or just some random whim. Whatever it was, that shirt had to go! Self-Esteem Emily was on fire, and that almost never happens! Follow your dreams, girl! Listen to your heart!
Okay, if we're being honest, I sort of knew why I was throwing it out.
Unfortunately, my favorite shirt was also a breakup shirt.
Sure, I have pictures of myself enjoying the beach and Halloween and study abroad in my favorite shirt. What I don't have pictures of are the two times I wore my favorite shirt the last time I saw a boyfriend before he broke up with me.
The first time, I drove the pilot-in-training from Norman to his Air Force base. Several days later, he got weird. The next night, he dumped me on Skype.
The second time, I drove the old friend to the airport. About a week later, he said we needed to talk. That night, he broke up with me on the phone.
By the time I threw out the shirt, my relationships with both of those guys were ancient history. I'd grieved and recovered to the point where I was more glad I'd dated each of them than mad at how the relationships had ended. I'd learned a lot through both relationships. I came out of both with many new ways to be a better person, some of which I'm still realizing to this day. Those relationships had served their own valuable purposes in my personal growth.
By the time I threw out my favorite shirt, I wasn't mad at either one of the guys. They both seemed much happier in the present than they had been when we'd dated. I was certainly much happier, and much more myself. Both breakups had unquestionably been good things which, frankly, should've happened sooner than they did.
So why did I throw the shirt out?
I chucked two and a half bags of "To Donate" clothes in the trunk of my car to drop off when I had the chance. If you know me, you will be unsurprised to learn that those bags are still there. But sometime in the fall, I went into the messy trunk of my car and foraged through the bags until I fished out my favorite shirt. No words were spoken between my shirt and me. My shirt didn't tell me it wrote me every day for a year, or look up at me apologetically with a blanket over its shriveled little sleeves. No pomp, no ceremony. I silently hung the shirt back up in my closet and proceeded as though it'd always been there. It fit like it always had, and still made me feel all the good feelings from before. I just acted like the weird blip of almost getting rid of this shirt had not happened.
I did not really understand why I had done any of this.
Which drove me nuts.
Y'all know I love TV, so it should be no surprise that I sometimes think of my life like a TV show. I wonder what the viewers would think of decisions I make, and who among my friends they would want me to be around more (or who the viewers would say I should cut loose). I wonder what life choices The AV Club would call a character misstep. Would the audience be rooting for me in this scenario, or against me? Again, if you've ever heard me talk about my love of Abed Nadir, this should not be surprising. I most often wonder what viewers would think of my motivations. Is what I'm doing in character? Does it make sense? Is it clear why I've done the thing I've done?
At no point in this Favorite Shirt storyline did I think the viewers would understand why I'd done what I'd done. This troubled me, so I set about trying to figure it out.
When I typed "like most people, I have a favorite shirt" above, I had no idea. But writing is how I process, so I figured it was a good way to work towards an explanation that my nonexistent viewers could get behind... and yes, a reasoning that I myself would understand.
There are a few possibilities.
Possibility #1: Did I get rid of the shirt because I thought that the sight of me in this shirt caused men to flee my presence? Is blue-white-and-yellow-plaid also Dude Kryptonite?
Doubtful. Like I said, this shirt makes me feel cute. Even if it's not particularly flattering, it's certainly not repulsive. And anyway, the shirt was clearly not the reason for either breakup. Trust me. So that one's not it.
Possibility #2: A slightly more subtle version of #1: Do I only wear this shirt when I want to feel comfortable, meaning that I have otherwise given up? Is this shirt not a causation for breakups, but a correlation with the complacency that typically precedes a breakup? Did I get rid of it out of a subconscious desire to make myself try harder?
I don't think this is it either. For better and (often) for worse, I'm not a person who gives up on relationships. I put in more time on both of those dudes than I should have. Giving up on them was not part of the equation until after they had both (rightly!!!) given up on me. I don't think I gave up on myself either. This one's a little harder to parse, but I'm pretty sure it's not why I threw my shirt out.
Possibility #3: Did the shirt just make me too sad?
I don't think so. See: all the above happy pictures and good feelings. See also: very grateful to not be in a relationship with either of those dudes any longer. See also also: I'm not really a relationship person. I'm not opposed to it, certainly, but I don't feel any existential dread or general sadness when single. I'm pretty sure this isn't the reason either.
Possibility #4: Do I secretly believe that this shirt is cursed? I'm not super stitious, but I am a little stitious. Do I believe that sometime long ago, Madame Zeroni cursed my no-good dirty rotten shirt-stealing great-great-grandmother to make my favorite shirt keep me single for always and eterrrrrnity?
No. That's stupid. Also I carry Hector Zeroni up the mountain every other Friday as part of my workout routine, so I'm safe from curses.
It wasn't until late last night, when I returned to the scene of the crime (cleaning out my closet... again), that I stumbled upon what I think is the real reason. It's closest to Possibility #2, but different enough that it felt like a revelation when it came to me.
Possibility #5: I think it's not them. It's me.
I have never had a breakup that wasn't good for me. There is nobody who I used to be with that I think I should still be with now. I don't doubt that. But the fact remains that I have still had a handful or two of breakups/it's-not-going-to-work-out chats in my lifetime, and all of those have been caused by something. My brain believes that those breakups happened because the best is yet to come. My brain knows that everyone I've ever dated was better for someone else than they were for me, and presumably I am better for someone else who's not them. I'm certainly better by myself than I was than with any of them. My brain believes that even if I'm not supposed to end up with anyone at all, being with No One is better than being with a Not-Right-For-Me One (which SPOILER ALERT is part of why both my brain and my heart like La La Land so much).
Yes. My brain believes that. My heart, I think, mostly believes it.
But my gut still says that I got dumped because I am inherently unlovable.
My brain and my heart are reasonable on this. I'm able to know and even usually feel that I'm a person who is worthy of love, a person who is worthwhile, even though I have broken up and been broken up with.
But that pesky gut still grumbles that I'm not. Amy Poehler calls this your demon, that sneaking sense that you are not worthy of love or success or happiness or fulfillment. It whispers nasty things to you when you get your grades back or when you look in the mirror or when you're grocery shopping or when you're, I don't know, cleaning out your closet.
I think my gut took one look at my favorite shirt and knew exactly what to pinpoint. Nobody knows your Achilles' heel like you do. My gut remembered that I'd been dumped twice right after wearing this shirt and grinned an evil, Grinchy grin. You know, this one:
"Your favorite shirt, huh?" says my gut. "The shirt that makes you feel the most like you? Haven't you been dumped not once, but twice, right after wearing that shirt? So I guess you get dumped when you feel the most like you. And always around that three-month mark, where you really feel like you can be yourself. I know you think there are lots of other factors to those breakups, but let's get real, girlfriend: couldn't it just be you being... you?"
Rather than argue with that, I just threw my favorite shirt in the garbage. I listened to my gut. I surrendered without a fight. I mean, there were other factors. But me being me was probably the biggest one. Right?
No. Not right. My brain knows that I am not perfect, but still lovable. My heart mostly agrees. But my stupid stupid gut convinced me that I was unlovable almost instantly. The mere suggestion caused me to part with an article of clothing that I loved. That I still love.
That's the first part of the mystery solved. That's why I threw my shirt out. As to the second part...
Why did I fish the shirt back out? Why did I choose to hang it back up in my closet? Why am I wearing it now?
Because sometimes you beat your gut.
"Sometimes," Amy Poehler says, "you get a little older and get a little bored of the demon [AKA gut]. Through good therapy and friends and self-love you can practice treating the demon like a hacky, annoying cousin. Maybe a day even comes when you are getting dressed for a fancy event and it whispers, 'You aren’t pretty,' and you go, 'I know, I know, now let me find my earrings.' ... Other times I take a more direct approach. When the demon starts to slither my way and say bad sh-t about me I turn around and say, 'Hey. Cool it. Amy is my friend. Don’t talk about her like that.' Sticking up for ourselves in the same way we would one of our friends is a hard but satisfying thing to do. Sometimes it works. Even demons gotta sleep.”
To me, Amy Poehler is perfect. Funny, gorgeous, smart, successful, writer, comedian, actress, mom, awards show host, smart girl encourager, invited herself to sit on George Clooney's lap... When I first read the above passage, I wondered, "what could Amy Poehler's demon possibly pick on about this perfect individual?"
That question completely misunderstands the issue of self-confidence.
I don't struggle with self-confidence because there is something wrong with me. I struggle with self-confidence because I'm human. Low self-confidence, like most destructive garbage, is rarely based in truth. It is almost always based in fear. What if everyone thinks I'm terrible? If you aren't terrible, you'll spend too much time living in that fear. You won't be able to have fun. If you are terrible, you'll spend too much time living in that fear. You won't take the time needed to work on yourself. Either way, endlessly dwelling on your faults helps no one.
That's why you have to fight yourself for yourself.
Your weapon will be a unique cocktail of self-helpful disciplines. Amy uses "good therapy and friends and self-love." I use friends, good books/movies/TV, a focus on problems bigger than myself, and the reassurance of value from my Creator. Like a wand in Harry Potter, everybody's weapon is a little different. Also like a wand, it takes some trial and error to find out what your combination is. What re-inspires you when you're down? What brings you joy? What makes you feel powerful? These are your weapons against a gut that whispers your insecurities against you.
One more wand metaphor: learning which weapon to use is only the beginning. You must also learn how to use it, and be diligent in that use. Surround yourself with the things that you use to fight your gut. When you figure out what they are, write them down! Then do them every day. Be diligent. Stay vigilant. Because although my gut whispers my insecurities at me a lot, Amy's right: even demons gotta sleep.
Why did I fish my favorite shirt back out of a white trash bag in the trunk of my car? Because sometime in between that spring Grinch grin and the fall search-and-rescue mission, my gut made a critical mistake: it took a day off. My gut, which had so persistently whispered "who you are isn't deserving of love" and "you drive people away" and "the only common denominator in all your failed relationships is you," took a day to get some R&R. And on that day, other voices replaced it. Voices of new friends and old friends wondering what I was up to, wanting to know what I think about something. Voices of characters from childhood, Princess Leia and Violet Baudelaire and Ella of Frell, reminding me of how much we have in common. My own brain and heart, while writing or meeting new people or interviewing homeless kids all over Texas, encouraging me in what I'm good at. My God reminded me that I'm made in His image. And I practiced believing all of it.
On that day, whatever day it was, my gut lost its edge. Its voice got softer, too soft to hear above the other voices. Sometimes it gains some of that ground back. So I keep fighting. I know in my brain that my gut is wrong, but it wasn't until my gut got quieter that my heart fully remembered. The biggest common denominator in my failed relationships is that I am better off out of them. It is not me. It is not who I am.
And it is certainly not my favorite shirt.