Each year I wear out anywhere from eight to a dozen pair of work gloves as I go about performing various projects to improve the property and gather the annual firewood supply from standing dead tree to split and stacked cordwood. I wear them until they're in tatters and almost more dangerous to use than working bare handed, developing an odd attachment to each pair to a point of reluctance to toss them into the trash. Yeah, too weird.
I just keep on putting on the current pair each new day, telling myself as I work that it's high time to get a new pair without ever doing so, learning to work around their advancing thinness, snaggy clothe cords and finger-exposing ruptures. Sometimes I misplace a thoroughly worn out pair and spend too much precious time tracking them down instead of getting a new pair.
But the day finally comes when I have to face the fact that I'm going to injure my hands wearing raggedy old gloves and go buy new ones. And as soon as I slip them on and set to work on a task–reveling in ecstasy of their complete protective coverage–it's easy to say goodbye to the familiar old ones, not missing them at all.