Tee Pain

I discovered something last night that took my breath away.

Amazingly, Mark has more clothes than I do. "Amazingly" not because I am a clothes horse (although some of my outfits do make me look vaguely equine,  like Mr. Ed in his peak years).  Rather,  I say "amazingly" because it is perfectly reasonable for anyone who has ever seen us to wonder if either one of us has ever given two hoots about Halston.

When I mentioned my findings, Mark simply said that he has trouble throwing things out.

On the cusp of our 24th wedding anniversary, I suppose I should be relieved to hear this.

Certainly, I've got my own handful of clothes--mostly t-shirts--that I can't seem to set free, despite all the evidence against them.  This is a historic problem for me, going way back to the 70s--my East Hills Swimming Pool days--when I could, without shame or forethought, (neither can exist in the presence of the other) wear the same three shirts all summer long.  Back then, I was like a walking version of the KLMS summer playlist, heavy rotation without all the variety.

It's a current problem, too, though.  Just three mornings ago, when my Newspaper editor showed up at my house to pick up a few things, I was wearing my curry-colored "Nebraska" shirt, one of three I picked up from Walgreens for $10 total about 8 years ago.  A humid morning, I was actively in my "You're Soaking in it, Madge" phase,  halfway through the laborious process of bottling our latest hooch.  (Did I mention how busy I am in the summer?)

This particular shirt--the curry color really brings out my eyes--is also air conditioned, letting in a nice breeze in the armpits as well as at the back of my neck.  That my hair was a bit matted from sweat and I smelled like yeast and hops just added to the package.  

We'll see if my editor shows up in my classroom the first day of school. . . .

My point?  In this shameful throwaway society we live in, surely Mark and I should be held up as counterculture heroes, tirelessly giving it to the man with our threadbare rebel togs.  Surely,  someone--preferably Cindy Lange-Kubick--could write up a snappy little piece about the two of us, highlighting both our bravery and our brilliance, pointing to the myriad ways in which we probably are saving the country--if not the universe itself--from what can, on certain days, feel like certain doom.

The eternal optimist, I'm holding out that our day is coming, hopefully soon, because this hole-riddled KZUM shirt I'm wearing doesn't have long.

Like, maybe two, three years, at most.