Dear Wife bought me a new shirt the other day. At least it’s new to me; somebody else owned it previously. No complaints about that; a lot of my wardrobe comes from thrift stores including most of the stuff I really like. Even better, it saved me the trouble of going clothes shopping for myself, something which as far as I’m concerned, ranks right up there with drilling holes in my kneecaps and watching programs on the Lifetime Channel. It’s an all linen number which hangs beautifully, feels great and if I say so myself, makes me look something of a stud muffin.
One downside of thrift store clothing is that no matter how good it looks, you’re never entirely sure of its past history so I added it to the bag of other shirts and dropped it off at the dry cleaners for laundering. It was a small pile this week so I got something of a shock on my return, when the bill came to over $17. Turned out the cleaners had followed the instructions on the label and rather than simply laundering it as I had asked, had dry cleaned and hand finished it. As this extra service came to almost $10, it made my $5 shirt a little less of a bargain.
But as I said, it does look good so I simply resolved to be careful when and where I wore it. I always wear an undershirt so if I avoided smoky bars and sweaty environments I should be able to squeeze two or three wearings between laundering. As I dressed to wear it for the first time, I jokingly said to Dear Wife, “What do suppose I’ll spill on it?” “Don’t say things like that,” she replied, “you’re only tempting fate.”
She was right, of course. It was tartar sauce. I great big dollop of it, right down the front.
This didn’t really come as a surprise. Clean clothes and I never seem to get along too well and in fact I’ve often speculated at the mysterious forces that cause food, drink and other messy substances to be inexorably attracted to my outerwear. When I lived in Britain I wore a tie each day for work and for the longest time I thought the only purpose they served was to keep my shirts clean. When dressing for an important occasion, I often had to ask “Do you think soup stains or chili stains go better with this jacket?”
The bottom couple of inches were usually discolored after my tie had fallen onto my plate as I sat down so over the years I developed the habit of pressing it to my torso until I was seated. Even though I haven’t worn a tie on any regular basis for several years, the habit is apparently still with me as I learned quite recently while eating lunch with a co-worker. In an interested tone he asked, “Why do you always pat your stomach when you sit down?”
My office in Phoenix was located across the street from an excellent Italian restaurant. Their specialty dish was chicken cooked in a red wine sauce which tasted absolutely divine even though it was a rather unnatural grape color. I had lunch there one day and as I had a client presentation that afternoon, was impeccably dressed. Anxious to maintain the smart appearance of my snowy white shirt and crisp chinos, I made sure to use my napkin. I’m aware it’s not socially acceptable to tuck one’s napkin into the shirt collar so like a good little grown up; I had mine spread over my lap. Although I should have known what would happen, I ordered my usual chicken-in-purple-stuff and in a matter of moments; had dropped a piece.
Perhaps if I’d simply sat still, I might have got away with little more than a nasty stain or two where it landed. Instead, in my frantic attempts to get out of the way, I did a series of hip-hop style dance moves and as a result, managed to steer the chicken-in-toxic-sauce all the way across my chest, down one arm, over my (now napkin-less) crotch and the full length of one leg before it finally came to rest in the cuff of my pants. The waitress did her best to help but really, only made matters worse. There wasn’t enough time to go home and change so I made my presentation to the clients looking like an extra from a slasher flick. The sad thing was; nobody seemed overly surprised.
It hasn’t always been my fault. One time I was flying on a business trip. My fellow passengers and I were just settling down to the highlight of the flight, namely the plastic glass of soda and the bag of pretzels. I’d taken no more than a couple of sips when the lady next to me spilled her drink over my right leg. The flight attendant raced into action and using no more than a glass of club soda and a paper napkin, did a quite serviceable job of removing the stain while leaving the crease in my pants reasonably intact. My seat mate was mortified and full of apologies. No real harm was done, we had a joke about it and the flight attendant brought her another drink.
She reached for her fresh drink and as we both watched in horror, some malevolent force caused her to throw this one over my right leg too. Again the flight attendant did her routine with the soda and napkin but this time, my pants were beyond salvation. My left leg was still sporting a fresh-from-the-dry-cleaners razor sharp crease while the right looked as though I’d been swimming. My business trip was a fly out in the morning, give a presentation, fly home in the evening kind of deal and for this reason, I traveled light – just my laptop and my notes, no change of clothes or anything. Still, at least I had an opening anecdote.
Coffee, ketchup, red wine, baked beans, anything that can leave a mess has at some time or other graced my apparel. The cleaner the clothes, the messier the stain – it’s just a fact of life. I’ve never been known as a close follower of the fashion world but I keep hoping that one day I’ll turn on the news to see some anorexic model strutting down the runways of Paris or Milan wearing a white blouse with a big dollop of mustard on the front. When that trend finally arrives, I’ll definitely be ahead of the game.
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