My Son, who shall remain numberless because I promised not
to tell people I was wearing his clothes, was not happy with his prize, a
T-Shirt earned in a promotion at work. On the other hand, Son Number Two wouldn’t
notice the shade of his shirt if you attached dollar values to the color wheel.
I held up the offending cotton blend. “I kind of like it. That neon green color is in style.”
I got the Eyeroll Plus Package in return. A complete 360 with accompanying snorts and
retching sounds. I also got the shirt.
“You’re sure you don’t want it?” This is not a guy who wears designer clothes.
His fashion choices vary with what’s at the top of the pile that day. Meanwhile, I was planning to hit my Zumba
workout where it hurts with new workout duds.
“It’s horrible.”
“So you’re offering me this shirt? With no conditions? Is this
the same kid who wanted to change schools because I came to the office wearing
his old gym shorts?”
“That was different. I wore those shorts.”
“I had to park three blocks away to pick you up the rest of
the year because I wore used clothes?” I
looked down at my jeans. I operate on
the theory that washing jeans too often breaks down their unnatural fibers.
“Do you want the shirt or not? I don’t have all day.”
What’s so urgent? Is he planning for early retirement? Negotiating a stock trade? I know from experience he’s gonna spend the next twelve hours with a video game controller in his hand saving mankind from zombies. It’s his mission and he takes it seriously.
Also, he’s discovered he can still eat snack cakes with one
hand while he’s saving the world. The
executives at the Ho Ho factory were relieved to find that out.
I claimed the shirt, retreated to my room with my prize, and
started searching dresser drawers.
Wonder where I packed away those gym shorts.
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