We need a clothes door pol­icy

The News (New Glasgow) - - OPINION - Steve Bartlett

“Don’t stop, peo­ple are watch­ing.” That’s what was em­bla­zoned across the orange T-shirt.

They were printed a cou­ple of years for the cheer zone of a road race.

It was big and bright and su­per com­fort­able.

I wore it ev­ery­where. I wore it a lot. I wore it out.

Last go­ing off, there were huge rips down each side.

You could see my belly and, de­pend­ing on what I was do­ing, my armpits. Sorry.

Even in that tat­tered state, it was amaz­ingly com­fort­able. A lit­tle breezy, but amaz­ingly com­fort­able.

Last week I wore “Orangie” — yes, I named the shirt — on an early morn­ing walk.

There wasn’t a lot of traf­fic, but the mo­torists who drove by were star­ing. Liv­ing up to the shirt’s credo, I didn’t stop be­cause peo­ple were watch­ing. I walked on, as­sum­ing the T-shirt caught their at­ten­tion, not my chis­eled abs or well-coiffed hair.

A few steps from my drive­way, I ran into my son’s friend on his way to school.

“Steve,” the nine-year-old said, “that shirt is dis­gust­ing!”

I smiled and walked on, chan­nel­ing Mick Jag­ger un­der my breath, “Orangie, Orr-an­ngie, when will those com­ments dis­ap­pear ...”

Washed af­ter that walk, I wore my BSF — Best Shirt For­ever — to bed Fri­day night and around the house Satur­day morn­ing.

It was a beau­ti­ful, warm late-sum­mer morn­ing, so my wife and I sat on the back deck drink­ing cof­fee and plan­ning the day ahead.

As I savoured the freshly-ground black java, with a se­ri­ous look on her face, my wife said, “Steve, look at your shirt. It’s time.”

I looked down, saw my un­cov­ered naval, and re­al­ized Orangie was no longer per­form­ing any of a T-shirt’s ex­pected func­tions.

Yes, it was in­deed time to get my shirt to­gether.

“Orangie, you’re beau­ti­ful,” I sang to my­self, “But ain’t it time we said good-by-ah-ah-eye.”

But not just yet.

Af­ter fin­ish­ing the cof­fee, I walked into the house and my six-yearold daugh­ter told me she was bored.

A light bulb went off and I quickly caved, ask­ing my daugh­ter to take a hold of my shirt and start pulling. “Se­ri­ously?” she asked. “Se­ri­ously!” I replied.

She grabbed on and let it rip, cir­cling me with wide eyes and a bright smile. She was thrilled.

Soon my fave shirt was just a long orange rag.

“Look what I did to Daddy’s shirt,” she said, run­ning out­side to show a friend.

“Was he mad?” her buddy asked. “No, he let me do it,” she an­swered. They were both sur­prised. And so was I, that it hap­pened.

Com­forted by the fact I still had those $5 sweat­pants from Wal-Mart, I tossed what was left of Orangie in the garbage.

Ob­vi­ously, the story of my shirt rates sec­ond last, be­hind dis­carded dryer lint, on the list of im­por­tant is­sues fac­ing the world.

But I know many of you — I won’t name names here — also have old pieces of cloth­ing that are well past the best be­fore dates.

Orange you glad you’re not alone?

Steve Bartlett is an editor with SaltWire Net­work. He dives into the Deep End weekly to es­cape re­al­ity and T-shirts with a chest pocket. Reach him via email at steve.bartlett@thetele­gram.com.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from Canada

© PressReader. All rights reserved.