So I have this t-shirt that I really only wear to the gym. It's a Cornell Baseball t-shirt and I've had it for something like seven years now. And I really like this t-shirt. Mostly it's that it's so comfortable after seven years of use that it feels like it's made from angel feathers. I would gladly hunt angels if it meant I could wear shirts that were this comfortable. But also, there's the fit. I don't know how whoever made it cut it, but it somehow fits me snugly and makes it look like my torso is a V-shape. In reality, my torso is more of a capital I-shape, if the serifs at the top and bottom of the capital I were on some sort of steroid. But that's why I like this shirt, because it produces the illusion that I am cut.
And I know I only wear it to the gym, but sometimes there are females in the gym. And since I'm impressing nobody with my weight routine, I need the shirt to tell whichever woman looks at me some sort of story to cover up the inadequacy of the weights I use. For instance, maybe I am someone who was once, like, really in shape, but then got really sick, but it's OK, because now I'm OK and I'm back and I'm slowly getting back into it, which is why I'm using these weights instead of those huge ones. It's a story I can live with, and I feel that the shirt communicates that to people. If I wear any other kind of shirt, well, then, the truth is out there, and some people just can't handle the truth. No pun intended.
Anyway, the issue is that the shirt I am so fond of is, like I said, seven years old. And that is old for a shirt, especially when it's a shirt you take to the gym and drench with sweat. See, sweat is to shirts as asbestos is to humans. You can only be exposed to so much of it before you start decomposing. So the shirt is constantly drenched in sweat and I have to wash it all the time. But imagine that you took a person with asbestosis and then soaked him in boiling hot water and then spun him around at 1,000 RPMs. Yes, you might knock the asbestosis out of him for a little while, but that person, just like the shirt, can only take so much of that before it starts to fall apart.
So my shirt, having been beat up by sweat and the washing machine for seven years, is disintegrating. Small holes started appearing in random places, and then those holes became bigger holes, and now my shirt is kind of ripped. And most of those rips are concentrated in the chest area. Personally, I blame the chest hair. It must not be easy to be in constant friction with what is essentially my body's tropical rainforest. You know how some people who run the marathon, their nipples start to chafe? I think my chest hair has chafed my shirt.
In any case, there are holes all over my shirt and they used to be small and insignificant, so I didn't care. But now they're slightly less small and considerably less insignificant and some chest hair is starting to poke through, kind of like when you see old Mayan ruins being slowly reclaimed by vegetation. And it has quickly become a shirt that I really ought not to wear in public and I guess I really should throw it out and get myself another one. And I know it's cliche that guys hang on to their t-shirts far beyond the point of rationality, hygiene, and acceptable personal appearance, but goddamnit. I really like this shirt. It's comfortable. It fits. I refuse to throw it out.
And it's been like that for three weeks. And then today, when I put it on, I noticed something awful. One of the holes had embiggened itself to the point where -- you guessed it -- certain angles gave you a view of my right nipple. And that's just not going to cut it. While I occasionally take off my shirt in public, I only do that by request. People aren't going to get a free show just because the quantity of my shirt has declined to the point where its effectiveness is compromised. That and it's all or nothing. You don't get a sneak peek, or a teaser preview, or an excerpt of the first three chapters of the novel. With me, you get the Full Monty.
So that's where we stand now. I hate to say goodbye to this shirt, but its time has come. If I could put it on a boat and set the boat on fire, I would do that for this shirt. If I could find a small piece of iceberg, I'd gently place the shirt on it and then push the little piece of ice out to sea. If I could shoot it out of a cannon, I would. The shirt has served me well and I feel like it deserves some sort of rousing send-off.
In the end, I guess, I'm just going to take off the shirt -- of course I'm wearing the shirt now -- and throw it in the trashcan and never see it again. And then I really should put on another shirt, but the trashcan is over here and the dresser is over there and between them I have a couch.
So farewell, good shirt. Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. Whatever heaven there is for shirts, I'm sure you'll be there soon.
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