It’s time to retire this shirt.
I got this t-shirt while working on a film many years ago. We recorded actors in NYC, and the director bought one for each crew member. I went along to help out and had a blast because, after all, I was in New York City! We stayed at the Plaza, ate at the 21 Club–all on the studio’s dime. Most important part of the trip? I got to shop at Bloomingdale’s (that’s when I made a union wage, see). How could I possibly turn this shirt into a kitchen rag?
This t-shirt one of those pieces of clothing that gets better with age–everyone has a piece or two like this in their wardrobe. The more worn out it becomes, the more comfy it gets. It was worn for sleeping, working out, and tee-vee watching. In other words, it’s a knock-around shirt. This shirt has given me wonderful memories, and it’s wonderfully beat to shit.
This morning while getting ready for Bikram, I couldn’t find a shirt to wear, so I donned my old friend, some yoga pants and headed out the door. Little did I realize how beat to shit this t-shirt was until Standing Bow. While I was reluctantly watching my form in the mirror (so brutal the sight before my eyes–I’m semi-blind now), I noticed two things: This t-shirt makes me look bigger than I actually am, AND it has HUGE holes in the pits. We’re talking if I had really hairy-scary pits, the hair would’ve tumbled out of them kinda like Rapunzel’s braids. Yep–that big AND that gross. I hoped to dog that no one else noticed. I’m sure people did though–how could one not? I notice things about my fellow students all the time–mainly the creative tats on the necks, backs and legs of those practicing in front of me. Seriously–it’s hard NOT to notice sayings in Sanskrit, Arabic and Hebrew on the same body part. I get it–your body is a peace treaty from the days of yore. Rock out, my friend.
Back to the t-shirt. For the rest of the class, or until I was no longer to watch myself in the mirror, I obsessed about how shitty this shirt made me look and feel, and came to the realization that it was time to retire it. Not only would this Large Marge of a shirt be put out to the fabric pasture, all of his little friends would join him. I just can’t keep wearing clothing that screams Slobovian because my psyche can’t handle it any longer. My body image is already poor, so why add to the misery?
So, Wednesday, I’m hoping to debut this little number I bought at Costco.
I hope they don’t kick me out of class, OR have me arrested for indecent exposure because I wouldn’t be surprised if the room got an eyeful of nekkid boobage. Not a sight for sore eyes, trust me.
I’m already missing my old friend. Enjoy retirement, you’ve earned it.