Farewell, My Friend

Last night as I was about to hop in bed, I grabbed a wadded up shirt to don for the night. Then it hit me that this shirt, now serving as a last line of defense for our bedding against the inevitable Monday night sweats, was once a proud member of my wardrobe. In happier times this shirt spent its days on a hanger amongst other clothing items that might be selected at any time to be worn in public settings. Now, like a great pitcher five years past his prime, it was being called on for mop-up duty.

The downward spiral of a great t-shirt is a lengthy, and ultimately depressing, path. Unlike when you notice a glaring rip in your boxers and start the six month wind down process (six months is about right, no?), the t-shirt is capable of hanging on for years past the time when decency should have demanded its retirement. And hang onto it you will, for it is indeed rare to find the shirt that hits the mark on every possible attribute- overall length, fit, sleeve length, neck size, neckband width, material weight, and style.

In its infancy, a top notch t-shirt can find itself being called on as a fashion statement in social settings. Once a bit of visible wear-and-tear sets in, a downgrade to errand running and milling about the house duty is in store. Finally, the former alpha shirt finds itself resembling Swiss cheese, partially see through, sporting an armpit hole large enough to fit your arm through it, and being called on for a yard mowing session or a night of sleep when the forecast calls for heavy sweat.

The great champion, in its final days