"Do you have another shirt?" a friend once asked me.
I asked what he meant.
"I mean that I always see you wearing that shirt...don't you have another?"
Of course, I do, I said. But this is my favorite.
Admittedly, I wear this shirt a lot. Anyone who has spent time with me will recognize it.
I bought it in 2003 on a trip to Las Vegas that included a tour of Hoover Dam. I bought it because I loved that it didn't have anything on it except fun facts about the dam. No photo, no fancy lettering. Just fun facts.
Eventually, this t-shirt worked its way deep into my heart, becoming my favorite. But this weekend, word came down from Katherine: It's time to let it go.
Okay, so it is completely faded. Okay, so the silk-screening is cracked and started to fall off the fabric. Okay, so it has a nickel-sized hole in one of the armpits (which no one would ever see--I mean, how often do I go showing people my armpit). But it is my favorite shirt.
We've been through this with previous favorite articles of clothing too. It starts off as a suggestion. Then a stern suggestion. Then an offer to retire it for me. Then, a kinda-but-not-quite ultimatum. Then an actual ultimatum. Then, if the matter is still not resolved, one day the item of clothing goes downstairs to be washed--and mysteriously does not return. Then Katherine denies having any knowledge of the whereabouts or fate of said clothing item.
But this shirt is special. It has, literally, traveled the world with me. Think of any major event in my life in the past seven years and I guarantee you I was wearing that shirt for part of it.
Faced with yet another Old Yeller-like situation with a beloved clothing item, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
"Do we have any combustible fluids?" I asked Katherine.
Living in a city, we don't have a lawn mower, so no gas can. I was kinda shocked that I had such trouble laying my hands on something that would ignite.
"Why do you want a combustible fluid?" Katherine asked, her tone indicating that she already didn't approve of the answer I had yet to give her.
"I'm going to burn my shirt."
I explained that I just couldn't give it away (I would be heartbroken if I saw some ironic hipster wearing my t-shirt at a concert) nor throw it in the trash (imagine how it would feel, especially after all we've been through). I couldn't even consider cutting it up to save for a quilt or something equally as ridiculous. It seemed more fitting to burn it.
Katherine was understandably concerned. Giving the degree of craziness we've observed in our alley, lighting a match back there is probably not a wise choice.
"How would you feel if I said I wanted to take something into the back yard and burn it?" Katherine asked.
"I'd probably tell you that you should burn it in the driveway instead," I said. "That would be much safer."
Katherine suggested that if I had to do something, I should bury it instead.
But then what will happen is that in 100 years someone will be digging up the backyard to put in a hovercraft landing pad and will come across this shirt. They will look at it and say, "Huh, what a cool shirt...why would someone bury it instead of wearing it?"
I, honestly, could not come up with an answer for them.
