|It's bought this beauty of a T-shirt|
at the Antigonish Highland
games in Nova Scotia and
I will never throw it out!
*Cue Braveheart music.*
When I was in my teens I woke one morning and my Mom was spot-washing the floor with my favourite sweat shirt. Sure it had a hole in the front. Sure the cuffs were torn. Sure it said “John Deere.” Sure it was stained. Sure it had been washed so many times it was an indeterminate colour.
Here’s the thing though: these are the very characteristics that made it perfect. And another thing: it’s hard to find a super cool comfortable shirt. So when we guys find one, why wouldn’t we keep it for nineteen years?
Recently, a woman told me about another woman (ya right) who hid her husband’s favourite shirt in the trash because he would not agree to chuck it. So she chucked it. I repeat: she chucked it without his permission. This is also known as breaking one’s marriage vows.
Anyway, unfortunately for her, garbage collection was not for two more days. Oh she claimed she had no idea where his beloved shirt went but his suspicion grew and after searching high, searching medium, and searching low, he finally checked the trash and there it was. And then he smiled. Why? It now had yet another stain. Thus it would irritate her even more.
Now guys, I’m not suggesting that we should treat our wives disrespectfully. Consider this. Once, for my wife’s birthday, I gave her a very special present. I gift-wrapped one of my shirts (the very one she most loathed) along with a pair of scissors. She immediately knew what to do. This proves we men can indeed be
c. civilized and
I granted this wish. Once. See? Very reasonable. But that’s over and thus I am allowed to wear any hole-in-the-armpit-stretched-and-crumpled-like-a-calf-suckled-on-it-shirt I want. For the rest of my life. And I don’t have to wear pants either if I don’t want to. (Just sayin.)
So ladies, go ahead and buy your men spanky new replacement shirts. Dare ya. (And good luck with that.)