Trashing Clothes to Make a Point

I’ve come to the conclusion that confessing to wrongdoing is, in fact, morally superior to simply doing the right thing to begin with. When you consider the grand scope of things, a vantage point I consider exclusively, admitting to immorality requires twice as much courage and integrity than just doing the ethical thing from the start, something anyone who’s seen a catholic mass and has a nagging fear of hell is capable of. So consider the following an act of great virtue.

I recently admitted to a large group of friends (not bragging) at a dinner party that one time I threw away a bag of nearly unworn clothes after I attempted to sell them at Buffalo Exchange, was promptly rejected, then immediately asked if I would like to donate them instead. This, of course, bound me in a bleary-eyed rage, forcing me to storm outside and chuck the bag in the parking lot dumpster. For this story I was vilified, and they used it as a means to judge my entire character. 

Never in my explanation did I attempt to say what I did was right. My actions were not mature, nor were they responsible. However, were they just? Well sometimes justice comes in many hues that can’t be easily understood. It’s a philosophical paradox—a moral quandary that requires an insightful and open mind to properly contemplate. 

On paper, I threw unworn clothing into a dumpster because three high school girls didn’t like them. But from an arguably more sophisticated view, I was exacting revenge against careless indifference, the kind that comes from teenagers wielding undeserved authority in a field in which they know nothing. For the first time in their short, miserable lives, a group of girls were given the power to scrutinize apparel and be regarded as experts in the “cutting edge”. Well news flash, rugrats, so am I; and it took everything in my power to not go get my cutting edge and brandish it wildly. So, understanding what I didn’t do, I was really being considerate. I should be admired.

What I did, I did on principle. “What principle?”, you may be asking yourself. Well, my guiding principles—the ones I base my life around. Unfortunately, they do not translate to English vernacular, nor can they really be explained at all. Those who can articulate what it is that guides their morality should consider themselves fortunate. My life is guided by vague intuition, a certain sense of things. And truthfully, referring to them as “guiding” gives them too much credit. A sherpa guides. A GPS guides. My principles gesture widely, leaving ample space for misinterpretation. These, of course, are still preferable to my driving principles, which should really have their license revoked, or at least require a breathalyzer to start the ignition. 

So, when my principles start giving direction, I need to be vigilant because while it may seem noble in the moment to take a stand against know-it-alls with a fashion sense and deny an unjust, insulting offer, it might turn out that as you explain what you did out loud in a room full of people, you realize you actually just trashed a bag of nice clothes in the throes of a hissy fit.