Going Full Gaiman

I'm a hair away from going full Gaiman. A permanent choice of what to wear, a buying of redundant copies, a forgetting about choice of dress thereafter. Freeing up your brain for more novel endeavors. Or freeing up your morning for 5 more minutes'o'snooze. 15 years ago I was anxious over whether I was perceived as having worn the same shirt two days in a row. Would people be able to deduce that a shirt worn on laundry day can be clean the following day? Would they question the rank of hygiene in my system of values? Today, shy of 32 (shit, only 10 days shy) I'm barely aware of wearing the same shirt two or three days in a row, so long as I'm not smelly. I quickly assess the handful of tears and stains in my clothes and decide "they're not deal-breakers." I'm probably smellier than I think I am.

I'm lazy about folding clean clothes. Lazy enough that 10 years ago I eliminated that step all together. My clothes travel along an unbroken loop, a trapezoid of vectors: Dryer drum to body, body to floor, floor to wash tub, wash tub to Dryer drum. On special occasions I will fold clean clothes and leave them on the stairs. On occasions with the frequency of the passing of Haley's comet, the clothes visit my dresser drawers, disturbing the bats that have taken up residence. I fantasize about buying an armoire to place 5 feet from my dryer. Note for future folk: invent single serving disposable outfits requiring no laundry.

An aside - the lint trap in the dryer makes me sad. It's the evidence of the slow, in-observable yet measurable erosion of the clothes from new to worn to hole-riddled to makeshift washcloth to garbage. Although throwing away a set of clothes would be more sufferable knowing ninety nine identical outfits remain.