It doesn’t seem to matter how careful I am. I can
lean over my plate. I can hold my plate under my chin. I can wear my napkin as a
bib. It just doesn’t matter, I always end up with something dripped down the
front of my ample upper torso…and seemingly always within the first two or
three bites. There are times when it happens BEFORE I take my first bite—I
can’t seem to open a cup of yogurt without shooting an array of milky splatter
art on my bosom.
My reputation of proudly displaying my leftovers
is well-known to friends and relatives. Last year Santa left me Stain Stick in
my stocking.
My favorite shirt is a Beatles shirt because when
I wear it, it actually looks like John, Paul,George and Ringo have grease spots
on THEIR shirts, taking a bit of the heat off me.
At the end of the day, I do my best to track down
any residue from the day’s errant vittles and smear a modicum of waxy stain
remover on each tasty splotch.
Unfortunately, it seems like more often than not,
I apparently miss a spot or two, and when I pluck a shirt from my closet in the
morning, a glaring grease spot or two mocks me from the bathroom mirror. Some
mornings it is bad enough that I have to grab another shirt. I remove the
soiled blouse and slather it with more magic potion before tossing it in the
hamper. Most mornings, however, the imperfections are faint enough to pass my
fairly flexible standards for acceptability and I’m off to the office.
One morning last week, however, I scored…big time.
I slogged through my workday pre-dawn regimen, and after donning my shirt, I
did my daily visual shirt scan in the bathroom mirror…and I saw a perfectly
spotless façade. I rubbed my bleary eyes, thinking that my usual morning
fogginess was playing tricks on me. Not a chance. I had achieved what I had
previously assumed was unachievable. My shirt was spotless.
I left the house that morning armed with the confidence
that nothing could ruin what obviously was going to be a great day.
I spent my day exuding confidence that could only
be realized by a man with a spot-free frock. Breakfast came and went without
anything tumbling on to my belly. My post-lunch inspection somehow found me
devoid of any peach Yoplait residue staring up at me from my bellyshelf.
I was on a roll.
The steak we had for supper that night, held onto
every single drop of my Heinz 57 sauce. I was beginning to think I should have
picked up a lottery ticket—it was my lucky day.
Bursting with pride, my day ended as it
began…scanning a spot-free t-shirt in the mirror before doffing it to step in
the shower.
That’s when my rosy cheeks went ashen. My heart
skipped a beat or two. The t-bone in my tummy rolled over once, then twice.
It nearly escaped without notice, but it was
unmistakable…the small white corner peeking out above the neck of my shirt. I
had spent the day at work wearing my shirt backwards. Pouring salt into the
gaping wound of my self-confidence, I spun around and confirmed what I already suspected...the
“back” of my shirt was riddled with grease spots.
Nobody said anything to me at the office. Maybe
they didn’t notice. Maybe that glaring white tag remained hidden, keeping me
from the hoots and catcalls of my co-workers.
Or maybe the punch line of the day (when I was not
in the room) was, “on the bright side, there are no spots on his shirt!”
Nothing will surprise me from here on out. I fully
expect, someday, to find my shirt tail sticking out the front of my fly, or my
pants leg tucked in my sock. Maybe someday I’ll catch my reflection in the
mirror at work with my shirt crookedly buttoned. (Kathy will try to tell you
this has already happened.)
It was probably only a matter of time before something
like this happened. I’ve been known to stand in a room full of people and
wonder why they are looking at me…as my cell phone rings in my back pocket.
Some of you have probably followed me for 10 or 15 miles with my blinker
flashing.
I’ve most likely snored in church.
I’m a pair of Khaki shorts with black socks away
from being that old guy I see in Wal-Mart once in awhile.
Golden years, here I come.
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