"What undershirt", you ask? I will tell you. *Insert short story* Once upon a time I was a hall director at a certain Catholic college in Grand Rapids. I had a one bedroom apartment in my hall. It was standard; cinder block walls, pipes hanging from the ceiling, and a galley kitchen. However, in a clear example of hall director inequity, the St. Joe's Hall director apartment was a step up. It had an extra room with a washer and dryer. But Jesse, you say; it's not fair that the St. Joe's director had laundry facilities and you didn't. Exactly. I'm glad you see things my way.
In an attempt to level the playing field, Jen, the hall director in Joe's would allow me the use of her washer and dryer. Occasionally, I'd throw stuff in the wash, and run off to a meeting; intending to return later. Inevitably I'd forget, and Jen being the amazing colleague she is would put them in the dryer. And so began our little routine. We'd be sitting in a staff meeting and out of nowhere Jen would announce 'The pits of your undershirts are NASTY. You need some new ones!" "New ones?" I'd reply. What was wrong with the ones I had? A pit stain never hurt anyone. Jen would always threaten to throw my t-shirts out. So, in an attempt to up the ante I decided to increase her torment. In staff meeting while our boss wasn't looking I would look at Jen, lift up my arm and smell my pits, pretending to be enraptured in a delightful aroma. She'd scowl at me and tell me I was disgusting. I loved those moments.
Eventually, it became too much. In an attempt to somehow turn me into a decent human being, Jen pitched a collection of my prized and well worn t-shirts and presented me with a set of new, sparkling white undershirts. Though sad to see the old go, I can't say I was didn't enjoy the new ones.
Fast forward 8 years. I did a load of laundry the other day and was again delighted to find one of THE undershirts that Jen gave me. It is an absolute pathetic mess. There is a hole worn through on the back the size of a plate. Smaller holes appear all over the shirt. The pits are an indescribable shade of yellow and the material is worn into a soft, thin, transluscent sheen. That shirt feels so good to put on. It's light, breezy, and outrageously comfortable. Every time I fold the shirt I look at it, look at the trash can, look at the shirt, finish folding it, stick it in the drawer, and think, "just one more wear." So has been the ritual. Wear, wash, fold, ponder, put way, wear...and repeat. To be honest, in the South Carolina summer heat I had to admit this shirt has its advantages, though unfortunately it's not appropriate to wear in public without another shirt over top. So, hoow can I part with it? I'm positive there are other guys out there who find themselves equally as attached to their t-shirts. I guess this is one way in which it's good not to have a wife; no one telling me to pitch my old shirts. I will most likely one day decide the shirt has fought the good fight and retire it. The only fitting end to it's life, though, is to package it up and mail it to Jen. Keep an eye on your mailbox Jen. You never know what might show up....