I have something of a curious relationship with my clothing.

Specifically, I'm talking about the casual T-shirts, pants and shorts I wear during non-work hours. The basic outerwear of my existence, basically.

I suppose thinking about my attire in such terms is a curiosity in itself, but I bet it would be weirder if I were talking about my underwear.

Anyway, while most folks are simply cheap floozies when it comes to clothes (buy 'em, use 'em for a while, then toss 'em to the curb), I have spent many years cultivating my wardrobe and have developed intimate relationships with each and every item that adorns me.

This is not to say that I'm some sort of crazed shopaholic or fashion aficionado. Far from it. Really, really far. Like, dig-a-hole-to-China far.

In fact, my wardrobe is incredibly boring and has barely changed during the last 10 years, as I'd rather eat my dirty socks than shop for new clothing.

Perhaps the best way to illustrate the skewed system I have is to explain the life of one of my favorite shirts. It's an orange T-shirt with a bland, gray logo on the front consisting of three pine trees and some lettering. Above the trees are the words "Brand Name Shirt," a sarcastic play on the overpriced advertisements most people pay to display.

I bought the shirt six or seven years ago at a highway rest stop on a class trip and it immediately joined the rotation of shirts I wore to school or when hanging out with friends. As I rarely purchase new shirts (I'm allergic to malls), it remained a key outfit item throughout college and I suspect elicited many a fine smirk over the years.

As is often the case with shirts, however, the wear and tear began to show. While the hearty, made-by-exploited-children-in-Honduras material has yet to rip, the underarms began to discolor a year or two ago, which, disgusting as it may be, is a fact of life for large people like myself who sweat gallons out per day.

Although I held out for as long as possible, I finally decided about two months ago to relegate my baby to "gym shirt" status. Shirts in this category are fairly disgusting, but are still fit for use at the gym, where everyone and everything is sweaty and gross anyway.

My orange shirt remains in gym-shirt limbo for the time being, but I'm nearly reduced to tears when I think about the next and final stage in my wonderful shirt's life: junk-shirt status.

Shirts regrettably reach this lowly status once they are no longer fit for public display. Be it from barbeque sauce stains, blackened or yellowed armpits or simply because they've been worn down to the threads, these shirts are the grunts of my outerwear army and would likely result in my arrest as a derelict if worn on the streets.

As soon as I get off of work, I throw one of these rags on and wear it through the night until I get dressed for work the next morning. Typically, I wear the same shirt for several consecutive days, changing junk-shirts only once they've started to "ripen."

Shirts linger in this stage for lengthy periods of time, years even, until they are finally retired. It happens quickly. I'll be wearing a junk shirt, doing whatever when something triggers my Hulk-complex. Without warning, I'll simply grab my collar - which is frayed and yellowed by this point - and rip the shirt right off of me.

Maybe I'll say goodbye or maybe I'll just use the remains to wipe pasta sauce off a plate, but no matter what, I'll always remember the good times spent in these fine threads of mine.