Cure for Dromomania

Once upon a time, there was a shirt. And this shirt was worn by a man.

The shirt and the man had found each other early in both their lives. The man had just left the cotton farm his family owned to find his way in the world. Traveling on little more than pure youthful optimism and a complete naivety, or more likely disregard, for the dangers of the world, the young man made his way throughout the county.

The shirt started as cotton in the same field the young man worked before he left. After being picked, the cotton was sold to the village seamstress. After being spun, dyed, and taken off the loom as cloth, those deft hands sewed the cloth into a shirt, the same shirt that the young man bought the first day of his travels.

Together, the two explored everything this world offer for a young man to enjoy. They stayed up all night drinking and flirting with barmaids in towns across the land and spent nights around campfires when no towns were in sight. They spent years on the road working odd jobs in order to afford the next trek to someplace unknown. Somewhere along the way, they picked up a pair of boots and a belt and all together, the group found all the joy and happiness that an unencumbered man can find.

But the joy of freedom is fleeting. The man, unknowingly, had been always searching for stability. When he found it, the boots were first to be cast off. It happened one day as the man, the shirt, the boots, and belt crested a hill and below them was the most beautiful valley town any of them had seen. Something twitched in the man’s chest and the shirt felt it. Both the man and the shirt realized this place was different than any other place they had seen. They approached town and the twitching in the young man’s chest turned to nervous fluttering of the heart, but the head of the man had never been so calm. Right then, the man decided to retire the boots. They had been re-soled and repaired too many times to be remembered and looked too road worn to acceptable in public. He purchased a new pair of more refined boots, rented a home, found work in the fields, and packed the old leather boots into a chest at the foot of his bed.

The belt was next to be cast aside. One evening, after a long day working the cotton fields, the man, the shirt, and the belt sat at a local inn waiting for a hot meal. As the man looked up to acknowledge the young woman bringing his plate, he caught a glimpse, a mere flash of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The shirt again felt his heart jump, twitch and flutter as he asked the young barmaid “Who is in the kitchen this evening?” “That would be our new cook, Nora” she replied. That evening, the man took the leather belt, notched and faded from years of use, and placed it in the chest.

Soon after, the man and Nora and the shirt were married. Together, they bought a small home and filled it with love and children. When appropriate occasions arose, the man would reach into the bureau for his favorite shirt. But, as the man aged, the occasions where the shirt was appropriate became fewer and fewer, so the man wore the shirt less and less. But it always was there. Once living in the top drawer, ready to be worn at a moment’s notice, it gradually made its way down the bureau. Though it found a home in the bottom drawer, under several other shirts, it had never found its way into the chest at the foot of the bed as it was the one thing the man could not part with.

The man became a land owner and hired men to work the fields. He and his family had become respected citizens, profitable land owners, and Nora became renowned throughout the region for her cooking skills. He held public appointments of high regard and was generally looked upon as a steadfast and competent man. All the while, a shirt, the shirt, sat in the drawer waiting. His children grew and the not so young man and the shirt became worn and threadbare.

For years, the man and the shirt were separated. Then came the night of his only daughters' wedding. That night he was in a celebratory mood, full of carefree joy and happiness, a feeling that reminded him of a time long past. This memory brought him to the bureau and the same memory asked him to dig through the bottom drawer. Finding the shirt and celebrating their reunion, the man confidently put on the shirt and left for the wedding.

Walking through town to the chapel, the man received odd looks from the fellow townsfolk. He smiled, waved, and let everyone see his joy, but they responded with looks of embarrassment and disapproval. Catching a glimpse of himself in a shop window, he saw what they saw. In the reflection was a wizened old man, a face that had seen life at its best and worst. A man respected and in high standing within society. The shirt, however was stretched at the belly, large at the shoulders, and the dye, though faded, was not the color a distinguished man wore. It was incongruent to see such an eminent man wearing such a sign of immaturity. Lowering his head, he understood that he had grown out of the shirt without even realizing it. He returned home and opened the chest at the foot of his bed for the first time in decades. Reaching in, he removed the belt and the boots. It struck him how grand he remembered these items, but how, now, with the benefit of perspective, they looked tattered. He saw them for what they were, worn pieces of leather. He recalled how the boots would beg him to keep going, keep walking, keep exploring. But he remembered for every beautiful mile they all walked together, there were always days of sleet and rain. He remembered his sore legs, the nights alone by fire, and realized that though those boots that brought him some of his fondest memories were also responsible for loneliness and years of difficulty. He held the belt and remembered as much as he could about all the conquests each notch represented. Then he remembered the lies he had to sell, the many number of times he slept alone, the raucous nights at the bars punctuated by the slow, painful morning. He understood that most of these notches were forgettable, a minor moment of lust, and could not compare to the love he felt now.

Finally, he took the shirt, his favorite shirt. Gone were the bright colors and gone was the strong back and arms that used to fill the shirt. Today, both the man and the shirt were tired, smelled of smoke and wine, and neither were nearly as bold as he remembered. Though both he and the shirt were full of stories, the man realized these stories also came at a cost. Again, he saw the joy and happiness he enjoyed early in life overshadowed by the solitude that filled the average day during that time. He realized that he was holding on to the good memories and jettisoning the bad and that the reality of his travels were much different than the few wonderful moments he could recall. He placed the boots and belt back into the chest and gently folded the shirt. Laying what was left of his youth and youngmanhood on top of the other items, he shut and locked the chest for good.

It took him some time to begin to enjoy himself at the wedding, but after eating the wonderful feast his wife prepared, drinking the fine wine his in-laws purchased, and dancing with his daughter, who was his entire world, he, under the glow of happiness and alcohol, sang and laughed. The clock stumbled forward as the guests greeted the morning and when the festivities finally came to end, he and his wife found their way home. As he placed his wife’s arm in crook of his own, he knew he would trade all the youthful travel, all the adventures, all the women, and all the late nights for THIS walk, THIS woman, and THIS night. And that, if given a chance, he would make the same decisions, the same mistakes, and lead the same life, but only if it always brought him back to this exact second.