Ever since childhood, I wear my clothes and footwear to the bitter end. I do not discard anything until it falls apart. They used to kid me about this even in elementary school. This is not because I love old things that very much, but because I hate new things that much more. New things sometimes wait for years in my wardrobe before I put them on for the first time, let alone start wearing them regularly. And I hate shopping with an even greater passion. Whenever there is an absolute need for me to buy something, I treat the whole thing like a military expedition. I carefully consider the alternatives; I select the most attractive one; I cautiously prepare for the eventual purchase; and then I strike with lightning speed. The sales people are always amazed at me. I always go for the highest quality, for that means longevity. The price is irrelevant. Anyhow, I just discovered that my favorite climbing pants—which I used to wear only for climbing, but which I now wear every day—are on their hind legs. On the back, where there are two layers of sturdy material, the outer layer is so thin in one place it is only a question of days before a hole appears. After nearly nine years, this is hardly a surprise. Besides, a button has fallen off the pants earlier today. Of course, both problems can be easily fixed, but the pants are nevertheless close to their working life. The next time I go to Zagreb, Ljubljana, or Trieste, I must look for a new pair of climbing pants. The dread!

Addendum I (December 13, 2005)

To my shame, I forgot to mention my mother’s help with my clothing. Many a rag made it through years of constant wear thanks to her meticulous care. Buttons, open seams, and small tears apart, she would sometimes do wonders to save a favorite jacket, shirt, or pair of pants of mine. She would masterfully patch all kinds of fabric on a regular basis, and she would sometimes turn the worn fabric inside out. And this she did for me all her life, even through her eighties. Only a couple of months before she died, she had sewn back a button on my favorite climbing pants. She was ninety. Ljubica Handjal took over from my mother after a hiatus of only a couple of years. A few months ago she sewed back the very same button, which had fallen off again. Today she did the same with another button. And she patched up the worn spot on the back. My climbing pants are as good as new again. Chances are that trip to Zagreb, Ljubljana, or Trieste will wait for a while. Although not far from eighty, Ljubica is in the best of shapes still.

Addendum II (February 2, 2006)

As far as my favorite climbing pants are concerned, the game is over, though. I just spotted another worn patch. This time it is quite visible—just under the fly. It is already opening up, and so I am a bit surprised that I have not noticed it earlier. In a few short days, the patch will be replaced by a sizable hole. And the pants will end up in the garbage bin, because Ljubica’s mending would be a bit too visible in such a tender spot. Alas! But I already know of a store in Zagreb where climbing gear can be found.