By JAN WELLS
There’s a state of warfare at my house – the Shirt Wars – and so far, I’m losing the battle.
Allow me to provide a little history for you. When Mr. Man arrived on the scene almost ten years ago, he announced that he had always taken his shirts to the cleaners, and had no intention of amending that habit.
Good, I thought. Just what I’d always wanted…an independent man.
My plate is filled to overflowing, and what with me rip-roaring up and down every paved road between Macon and the Florida line five days a week…who has time to wash and iron?
But recently Mr. Man, more stubborn than any ox you’ll ever meet, got it in his head that the cleaners lost one of his Ralph Lauren shirts. What are the odds of that, I ask you?
“I’m not taking my shirts back to the cleaners…they won’t get the chance to lose another one,” he announced just the other day.
Whoa, Nellie! Let’s don’t be too hasty here.
I need to backtrack and make this disclosure: the man must own a thousand shirts. Literally. I’m not exaggerating.
Okayyy…maybe not a thousand…maybe only five hundred. And you know how it is…after a while they all start to look alike. I’ll bet you he has no less than 20 long-sleeved light blue shirts.
To give you a better perspective on the situation, there are five large walk-in closets in our house, and all my things are tucked into one. The rest of the closets are brimming over with Mr. Man’s clothes.
The funny thing is, out of those hundreds of shirts, there are only a handful that he chooses to wear on a regular basis, unless we’re going somewhere special. And those few have been washed and worn so many times they are beginning to be threadbare.
Yet, every Christmas, birthday, Father’s day and anniversary, he wants…drum roll please…a new shirt. Call him a collector of Ralph Lauren – a connoisseur of sorts.
Given the mounds of shirts hanging in four different closets, I suspect the alleged missing one is simply hiding among those. After all, there’s no particular filing system… no ingenious color-coding.
He just crams them in there. Tight.
While most people our age are thinking about downsizing, we in fact need a larger home, with more closets for him. It’s certain I’d still be allowed only the one, no matter how big the house.
But back to Mr. Man’s dilemma…he has made his decision, and demands the shirts be done at home.
If he listened to me and wore a different one each day, we could probably get by at least two years without breaking out the ironing board.
As it happens, I’ve never been one to do much ironing. First, that’s why God invented permanent press fabric, so I wouldn’t have to iron. Second, if I must go out into the cold, cruel world and make a living, all the grown people around me need to figure these things out for themselves. I’m not a handmaiden.
Nonetheless, Mr. Man can be convincing. In addition to having a stubborn streak, he tends to get a WEE bit grouchy if things don’t go according to his plan.
He once said to me, “I’m the main actor on this stage, and you’re a prop in my play.” He probably learned that from his daddy…I know his mama didn’t teach him such bad sayings.
So, I’ve agreed to be a good prop and iron the shirts. I firmly believe that’s the most prudent course of action at this point, until he comes to his senses.
Now, if I can only find the iron. Then figure out how it works.
