The T-Shirt’s Last Day

I imagine Echo and the Bunnymen’s Nothing Lasts Forever has sound-tracked the end of many a relationship. Today it reminds me that clothes – like people – grow apart. Or fall apart in this case.

It wasn’t until I caught the reflection of myself in a cafe window that it hit me: this was the last day I would ever wear my favourite blue t-shirt.

As I sat on the train I wondered how on earth I hadn’t seen the signs of wear and tear sooner. Or better yet, why my mirror failed to warn me of its demise. I had been cheated by my own visage.

For years, this blue Supreme tee and I had been an ideal match that never required much in the way of critical reflection. People often told me we looked great together and that we were the perfect fit. It had become a staple and looking good in it was a given. And over the last four years it sure did serve me well, outliving many of its contemporaries in the process. But it no longer fitted its Supreme label.

In fact, when I look back on moments of social success, so to speak, it wouldn’t surprise me if I wearing Ol’ Blue. Whether it was casual work drinks, a date, or even the prowess of company at a fashion show – the simplicity of my tee held its own.

Now that I think of, this probably wasn’t the case – but it was at least comfortable.

It was time to face up to the facts – Ol’ Blue was not in good shape. It hadn’t attracted a compliment in some time. It had let itself go, especially around the waist. Four years of wear, and wash cycle after wash cycle, had finally taken its toll.

Ol’ Blue now resembled a man of pore posture whose life had been run ragged. The neckline was unstable, slouching down low, and it was thinning up front. If you cared to look close enough you could even spot my chest hair poking through the strained fabric.

After realising how bad I’d let it get, I couldn’t wait to get home and take it off. I studied the judging looks from co-workers and clients alike while in a meeting. All of whom seemed to sneer at Ol’ Blue. I felt compelled to let everyone know that this was going to be its last day in the office, and we would not be holding farewell drinks for it at the pub after work.

Still, parting company with such a loyal garment wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe I’d keep it hidden away where it couldn’t hurt anybody, in a drawer behind those unused condoms. No. It had to go. It had to. Katie from accounts confirmed it with a withering stare. But I couldn’t ignore the memories that lay within its very fabric.

I’m sure you can sympathise. We’ve all allowed clothing items to outstay their welcome as trends left them behind. Maybe it’s a camo print, early 2000’s stained denim, or that pair of Adidas button up tracksuit pants you’re holding on to. It’s emotional.

But I was farewelling this one thing that transcended time and trends. It didn’t bear the scars of bad screen-printing or hideous fluoro. It was cool – plain and simple

Come to think of it, my Ol’ Blue tee didn’t outstay its welcome.

It simply outwore it.

Chris is currently interviewing new t-shirts. He is a mens small, enjoys a fitted feel and durable heavy-duty fabric. He’s taking recommendations here: quasitis@gmail.com

Jealously is a Curse, But Stains Are the Worst

I’ve never been good with girls and up until Thursday afternoon––neither was the burrito stain on my t-shirt. There I was standing by the bus stop doing my best to not sweat profusely in front of people when an attractive girl headed my way (which, in turn, made sweat management impossible).

“Oh my God! Is that a burrito stain on your t-shirt?” She squealed, like it was a celebrity or something.

“Um, yeah, it is. I just had one.” I mumbled through her excitement.

“I love burritos!” She gasped. “We should get a drink sometime. Like now!” It was that easy.

Next thing, we’re at the pub across the street sharing a beer. “So, tell me: How did you get the stain on your t-shirt? I’m intrigued.” She blushed, but before I could even answer she was already on to the next question. “Believe it or not, (which I didn’t, at the time) I’ve been wondering ever since I saw you at the bus stop what kind of sauce it is,” She paused, “on your shirt I mean.” Blushing again.

Dumbfounded by her interest, I confessed: “Chilli sauce.” And with that she slowly bit her lower lip. I tried to ask some questions of my own in an attempt to change the subject and make light chatter about work, weather, hobbies, anything really––but soon realised that she was only interested in one thing––the stain.

Several beers later the two were practically eating out of the palm of each other’s hands––the stain and her I mean. Not only did I feel like the unwanted third wheel buying them drinks, but extremely uncomfortable when the stain went in for a French kiss. I made an excuse about having work early in the morning and got the hell of there. She wrote her number down on a napkin, leaving a lipstick imprint along with it. The thing is: I’d had stains on shirts in the past ruin conversations, job interviews and certainly photos, but this was the first stain I’d ever seen pick up a girl.

On the way home the stain dodged my questions, acting completely aloof as though I was over-reacting or something. “This is bullshit.” I said, “You’re going straight into the wash basket when we get home.” The smug punk stain just sat there in silence.

My wash cycle ended on Monday so I had a couple of days to cool down before Napisanning the shit out of my t-shirt. After pulling everything else out I eventually came face to face with the stain again. Admittedly, it had slightly faded since Thursday. Certainly less confident in appearance than how I left it. Deflated even; starved from moisture, it barely resembled the cocky son of a bitch that stuck out like dog’s balls on Thursday. I kind of felt sorry for it, in all honesty.

Regretfully, I pulled the napkin with the girl’s number from my pocket. “One phone call,” I said, shaking my head. “Five minutes and I’m hanging up, not a second longer.” With this, the stain lit-up, blooming in colour once more. The phone rang and rang, eventually going to the girl’s mailbox. “Hey, you’ve reached Annie’s phone. Leave a message after the beep.” Even her voice was attractive. I left a message.

“Hi. Yeah, look, it’s, uh, Chris. Not sure if you’ll remember me, but… We met last Thursday. My stain and I…” With that Annie picked up. “Hey! Sorry, I didn’t recognise the number or your voice. Can you tell the stain that I’ve been waiting for him to call?” I stared down at my shirt in the wash basket. “Yeah, sure. I’ll let him know. Listen, what’s the deal here? I mean, you know, this is kinda weird. The whole thing with you and the stain…” Annie quickly cut me off. “Sorry Cliff,” she pleaded. “Chris.” I said. “It’s Chris. My name is Chris.” She didn’t care. “Right. Um, is the stain around at all? Can I talk to him?” With that, I handed the phone over.

Hours went by while the two of them chatted away. Every so often I’d walk by the laundry to check and see if either had hung up, only to find my phone resting on the side of the stain with Annie’s laughter echoing out through the speaker. That weekend, the two of them went out to lunch, unsurprisingly, for burritos. When the stain got home it looked bigger than ever. In fact, it looked as though half a bottle of chilli sauce had been newly spilt on my shirt. I was furious (it was three o’clock in the morning I might add.) “Where the fuck have you been, and why is my shirt covered in sauce? What have you two been doing?” I screamed. “Not that I’ve been waiting up for you or anything.” I added. I might as well of been talking to a brick wall, because the smug punk stain just sat there in silence. “That’s it.” Motioning towards the cupboard. “I’m getting the Napisan.”

First & Last

I’ve never beaten anybody in a race. Well, post-birth that is. And if I hadn’t have won that race, I wouldn’t be here today. The first race any of us are ever in, and it could of (perhaps, should of) been my last. I managed to win the right to be born. I beat millions of other sperm in a race to the egg; which probably says more about the quality of the competition than it does anything else. I can only assume my one and only victory came down to a mix-up. Perhaps I jumped the gun and got off to a good start. I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel right that I’m here, especially after being defeated by a kid almost half my age at the swimming carnival earlier today. My high school P.E teacher seems to share the same assumption. She once lost her cool with me and blurted out in front of the whole class, ‘How fucking slow and stupid must the other sperm have been for you to be born?’ She’s no longer teaching at my school, which isn’t to say she was wrong.

That initial race must have really taken it out of me. Maybe I put so much energy into winning, that I’ve completely exerted myself. It would explain why I’ve felt drowsy and fatigued ever since birth. My mother had me on a variety of vitamins and tablets to combat iron and energy deficiencies as a child, however, none if it ever made a difference. It’s as though my body is still catching its breath. Or maybe it’s just resting on its laurels, content with that one taste of victory. And It’s not as though the victory of being born is something one can cling to, either. Life is like one giant green room filled with 6 billion others who’ve all won the same race. Everyone’s a winner, so it doesn’t even count anymore. It’s like defecating or breathing, we’ve all done it. So you can’t bring it up in conversation and brag about it, or put down the other sperm who lost and died doing so. Nobody living even remembers winning that race. That’s how many other fucking races they’ve won. Is it really impossible to recall life as a semen? Or have people deleted it from their memory bank to make room for all of the other victories they’ve had since birth?

Sometimes I sit alone for hours trying to think back to that race. I try and recall the feeling of making it into the egg first, but it never works. Occasionally I’ll have a nightmare about it; I trip and fall allowing another sperm to get there at the very last second. Other times I’ll dream about the doctor telling my mum that there was a mistake, “The wrong sperm won.” He frowns. “You’ve got a loser on your hands, the rightful winner has been robbed.” The nurse adds. Unhappy with the result, my father applies to have the race rescheduled. The doctor apologises, informing my parents that unfortunately none of the other sperm survived. “You’ll have to start over and try again from scratch.” This news brings a smile to my father’s face. “No,” my mother says, “we’ll keep the baby, for now.”

I wake up in a cold sweat and out of breath, as if I’ve just finished the race. I wonder if it was it worth it? Being born, I mean. What’s the point of winning if you’re doomed to lose forever. I sometimes wish I would have let another sperm win. That way I wouldn’t be getting laughed at by this kid at the swimming carnival. Did I mention that he’s almost half my age! “It’s nothing to be proud of,” I blurt out, “I’ve lost to kids a lot younger than you.” What kind of comeback is that? I’ve only made it worse for myself, he’s laughing even louder. I’m drowning. I try and focus on the comfort of my ergonomic desk chair, my high-speed internet connection, and the release of Call of Duty Advanced Warfare waiting for me at home.