Wednesday, June 27, 2001
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Wednesday, June 27, 2001 |
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Secrets revealed: By BILLY MURPHY Diary of a shirt A man's life can be summed up in a score of soiled shirts. If he is lucky. Though men aren't usually given to recording their thoughts and dreams and actions in a journal, you can pretty much find a chronicle of the male experience in his cuffs, collars and sleeves. Chapter One. What's that smell? My teen years were lavished on my shirts in the mixture of nervous sweat and my father's borrowed Old Spice. If the animal kingdom is truly ruled and structured by smell, then my first experiences into the jungle of love were deserving of a Mutual of Omaha "Wild Kingdom" documentary. Marlin Perkins would have been standing over me with microphone in hand, narrating my musky failures like that of a cheetah wearing a cowbell. Parents are hesitant to invest in the romantic endeavors of a young man, thus I was left only to splash on my dad's aftershave. Restraint is hardly a quality of a teen boy hoping to impress Donna Mitchum, so the smell and stain of my cologne hung in the air like a Kobe Bryant slamdunk. Combine this with a hot August night and a chubby kid in a polyester button-down and you have a tragedy that would make Shakespeare cry. Chapter Two. Breaking up is hard to do. Throughout my long bachelor life (I say it like I was in full control), I don't know which was worse, girls crying because I was breaking up with them, or girls crying because they were breaking up with me. Either way, I had too many mascara-stained collars for too many years in my life. I would wager, though, more than a few of the girls breaking up with me wore waterproof makeup, so they wouldn't ruin their face for the date they had planned after they had dumped me. During those cry-fests, I saw acting that would make Meryl Streep look like Tori Spelling. Theoretically, let's pretend I had actually ever broken up with a girl. I am sure, had it happened, the stains would have not only covered my collar, but streaked down the broad expanse of my knit Izod. It would break my heart to feel their tears pour all over me, begging me to stay with them in theory. Anne Robinson actually stole my style for breaking up with girlfriend after girlfriend when I would simply and curtly say, "You are the weakest link... goodbye." (In theory). I have closets full of shirts to prove it, or not. Crazier things have happened, right? Pee Wee Herman is back on TV, Lisa Left Eye Lopes got back together with Andre Rison. Chapter Three. Meet the parent. Once I became a man, and took on the responsibilities of marriage, kids and installing smoke detectors, things changed. For a time there, I didn't have a single shirt that didn't have spit-up on the shoulder. There's something comforting, though, about a pile of shirts needing laundering from the side effects of having children. In this judgmental, materialistic, and prejudicial world, it is nice to know that your children can look past all your weaknesses and faults and choose YOU to launch their nice-sized lunch on your shirt. I feel honored. Of late, my 5-year-old daughter has found that my shirt tail or sleeve is a great place to wipe her mouth after eating. This could easily be just a warm-up for when she comes to me later, crying through her tattoos and piercings about some boy, to stain my collars yet again, bringing my journal full circle. I would be honored. Chapter Four. Of ancient days. My own drool need I say more? [Visit Billy Murphy on the Internet at www.ebilly-net.]
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