It was a difficult decision to make--for both Hubby and I.
"What do you think?" he asked anxiously. I eyed his favourite cardigan. I had been with him when he bought it--we hadn't been married then. The sweater was now worn and looked as if a family of field mice began nesting in the pockets. Small holes--which I had diligently mended in the past--had already reappeared, looking like some voracious alien had nibbled away at the pockets, the ribbing, the sleeves. . .
"It has to go," I said firmly as the more I examined the weary sweater, the more it seemed to disintegrate in front of my eyes.
Heaving a reluctant sigh, Hubby looked at me and said, "I"ll toss it out if you toss out something too."
"What?" I asked, wondering what I had to contribute to the junk heap.
"How about your writing sweatshirt? It's barely hanging together and you do have others in better shape."
"But it still got sleeves and perfectly good fleece in the critical spots!"
"I hate to burst your creative bubble, but it has to go," Hubby said firmly.
And so we did. Truthfully, not even a homeless person would have benefitted from our beloved sweater and sweatshirt. We had mentally counted up the years of wearing enjoyment and between us, it tallied to a mind-boggling number of decades.
We watched the garbage collectors haul our cans over to their huge truck and emptied its contents.
Hubby lamented, "Clothes just aren't made to last anymore!" And as the truck drove away, I fleetingly thought, "Good grief, are we that old?"