Hand Me Downs Give me The Downs?

As the youngest of 4 children you’d think that my entire life would have been nothing but hand me downs. In most families, toys, clothes, and furniture are passed along (depending on gender) from sibling to sibling until it is time to lock it away with the eventual hope of grandchildren. But since my brother is 8 years older than me, making the clothes he wore just outdated enough by the time I came along, and my father who found it easier to throw out our personal possessions and furniture rather than schlep it from house to house (we had a tendency to move around), I was blessed with a wardrobe, toys and furniture all my own. Nevertheless, the few articles I adopted from my siblings’ pile of throwaways became more prized and valued than the teal pair of Calvin Klein jeans I begged my mother to buy me from TJ Maxx. (I have yet to forgive her for this error in judgment.)

My sister’s sweatshirt, 2 sizes too large for me and her, is the only thing I want to wear when I have one of those hangovers that makes you feel unsuitable to walk among the living; any song I recognize by the Counting Crows I feel has been gifted to me by my brother, and even undershirts I’ve borrowed from friends or lovers seem more special than any of my own drab white v-necks.

Now it seems that my love of hand me downs stretches farther than my closet and ipod. I’ve begun to notice that the men I give my heart to all seem to be hand me downs as well. I don’t mean that my siblings or friends have passed their boyfriends along to me, but that every boy I’ve really cared about belonged to another, or was thoroughly worn by his previous relationship.

The first category is easy to explain. The classic draw of being ‘the other man.’ I have never refuted my oft tendency for ‘homowrecking,’ and I won’t defend its merits and inherent flaws. I will merely say that if the draw of the forbidden fruit was so easy to avoid than we’d all be naked and happy in Eden, but think of all the outfits we’d have missed out on! Loving the boyfriend of another man is easy when you are in love with the idea of affection without attachment. I love to wear my friend’s clothes out to a bar but dread the thought of staining his shirt or ripping his jeans. This trysts are fun because of the danger and wanton disregard for decorum, but must be handled with care lest the real owner notice the damage you’ve afflicted.

The second category is more difficult to explain because there is a nary a man (or woman) you will meet that is not in somehow affected by the relationship that came before, but I seem to have a special knack of choosing the guys that still communicate regularly with their ex, still hold the thought in the back of their mind that perhaps it may work out someday if the stars decided to realign and both parties fall prey to limited amnesia.

I love these boys because at first they look at me like a clean slate, like an opportunity to start over. I am the Ellis Island of dating. I adapt to their surroundings and make a genuine effort to rise above any first date’s expectations and morph into their dream boy. In that way I get to slip them on for the first time, see how it fits, if the threadbare elbows can be patched and the missing button replaced. But in my attempts to adapt to them I only begin to look more like the boy they’ve already thrown away, or whom had already thrown them, and when I look in the dressing room mirror I don’t recognize the guy before me, although he resembles someone I once knew.

What makes hand me downs so desirable is that it’s easy to escape the blame if the relationship fails. The previous owner can always be held responsible. I love that my sweatshirt is worn and comfy, but I now despise the thought that someone else had to break in my future boyfriend. Learning from past relationships is one thing, but being forced to repair the damage a previous boyfriend inflicted isn’t as emotionally profitable as fixing a hole in the seam of a Marc Jacobs shirt you fished from a bin at the Housing Works warehouse sale.

So hand me down a sweater you’ve simply outgrown or may have shrunk in the wash. Give me the CD you’ve already transferred to itunes, and by all means pass me the book you’ve already read and enjoyed. But I no longer want to share your boyfriend with you because you are too busy to notice we talk each night for hours, he’s too scared to leave you but not enough to abstain from fucking me. I no longer want the ex you swore you didn’t want until you saw how good he looked on me and decided I wasn’t right for him.

When I was growing up I was rarely denied what I wanted. I was the only kid to get Jnco jeans, my own credit card to 6 stores in the mall, and a new car. Is it too much to ask for a guy that treats me like I’m the only one he’s ever loved? I refuse to believe that ‘the one’ can be handed down. Although, I do really love that sweatshirt.