The other day I figured out that I had enough tee-shirts to last me the rest of my life. This revelation came to me while sitting at the edge of my bed examining my beloved “The Sopranos” shirt with the mysterious hole at its bottom. Do I wear it, or should I contemplate retiring it? God knows I can afford to part with it. I have an entire drawer dedicated to my tees in addition to the dozen or so hiding at the top of my closet.
This was when it hit me. At age 60, tee-shirt wise, I had hit the tipping point. If I never acquired another one, I had more than enough to last until they ship me off to… To where? Ah, that is a good question.
On my days off I dig around for an appropriate tee to wear that day. My current favorite is a black one that says, “Still Pissed At Yoko” in white Beatlesque letters. It gets attention. More than one person has commented on it while standing in the checkout line the Super Wal-Mart.
There are many others, of course—way too many to list here: a Pink Floyd “Dark Side of the Moon” shirt that all true children of the 60’s should own. Then there’s the Beatle’s “Rubber Soul” shirt, my son-in-law, Tom, gave me. It’s a little tight, but it works. A “World’s Greatest Dad” shirt my daughter, Laura, gave me one Father’s Day. A few more honoring local events: the Rio Vista Bass Derby held most Octobers in the town I live, Hayward’s annual Ukulele Festival. A couple more from the now defunct Isleton Crawdad Festival.
Lots of shirts. Lots of shirts to remind me of minor events of my past; enough shirts to remind me of the transient nature of life.
When I was a young man, I never gave the tee-shirt collection slowly growing in my dresser a second thought. The stack of Corona beer shirts building up in my drawer (Are they somehow reproducing in there?) never crossed my mind. You just threw one on after a shower and went about your day: playing with the kids, mowing the lawn, watching television, drinking a beer. Little did I know that the tees were a symbol of my own mortality.
You can’t count white tee-shirts when you noodle on this equation. With no words or images emblazoned on their cotton surfaces, they are meaningless and transitory. But my two Yosemite Mountaineering Society “Go Climb A Rock” shirts are timeless. The shirts are an identical blue; one bought about five years ago, the other circa. 1971. I have used the latter several times as proof to a person younger than myself that “I have tee-shirts older than you.”
Go now to your closet or drawer where your tee-shirts await to let you know that quite a few of them will be around after you are gone. What do they say? What do they mean?
Something to contemplate as I sit in the 4 Corners Café of my mind, drinking a cup of hot Joe.
This was when it hit me. At age 60, tee-shirt wise, I had hit the tipping point. If I never acquired another one, I had more than enough to last until they ship me off to… To where? Ah, that is a good question.
On my days off I dig around for an appropriate tee to wear that day. My current favorite is a black one that says, “Still Pissed At Yoko” in white Beatlesque letters. It gets attention. More than one person has commented on it while standing in the checkout line the Super Wal-Mart.
There are many others, of course—way too many to list here: a Pink Floyd “Dark Side of the Moon” shirt that all true children of the 60’s should own. Then there’s the Beatle’s “Rubber Soul” shirt, my son-in-law, Tom, gave me. It’s a little tight, but it works. A “World’s Greatest Dad” shirt my daughter, Laura, gave me one Father’s Day. A few more honoring local events: the Rio Vista Bass Derby held most Octobers in the town I live, Hayward’s annual Ukulele Festival. A couple more from the now defunct Isleton Crawdad Festival.
Lots of shirts. Lots of shirts to remind me of minor events of my past; enough shirts to remind me of the transient nature of life.
When I was a young man, I never gave the tee-shirt collection slowly growing in my dresser a second thought. The stack of Corona beer shirts building up in my drawer (Are they somehow reproducing in there?) never crossed my mind. You just threw one on after a shower and went about your day: playing with the kids, mowing the lawn, watching television, drinking a beer. Little did I know that the tees were a symbol of my own mortality.
You can’t count white tee-shirts when you noodle on this equation. With no words or images emblazoned on their cotton surfaces, they are meaningless and transitory. But my two Yosemite Mountaineering Society “Go Climb A Rock” shirts are timeless. The shirts are an identical blue; one bought about five years ago, the other circa. 1971. I have used the latter several times as proof to a person younger than myself that “I have tee-shirts older than you.”
Go now to your closet or drawer where your tee-shirts await to let you know that quite a few of them will be around after you are gone. What do they say? What do they mean?
Something to contemplate as I sit in the 4 Corners Café of my mind, drinking a cup of hot Joe.
My favorite tee shirts is one that says" Enjoy Weed"! It's font is like Enjoy Coke advertisements. It actually refers to Weed, CA,
ReplyDeletebut it's fun to see people's reactions when I wear it. HEHEHE!!!
Donna Cummings (again)