So B, my husband, is 42. That's got to be on the brain. Keep that stewing in the background, for this story. And I swear on the lives of my four kids that this story is, sadly, 100% true.
B has this Hooters shirt that he had SIGNED by the waitresses. Am I kidding? No, I am not. He never wore it because he didn't want to LOSE the signatures in the washing machine. Whatever.
One day, B runs out of t-shirts and reluctantly puts on The Hooter. I happily wash it. The freakin' signatures stay. And thus, a monster is created.
So here he comes out of the bedroom, doning this ... thing. On his way to the BANK. The bank where he has to go INSIDE to sign some papers. I said, "You're wearing that to the bank?"
He looks down at his shirt like he has no idea what I'm talking about. "Yeah, why?"
I said, "It's like something an immature 18 year old would wear, all excited about his fraternity's drunk night out with buckets of hotwings."
And he says, totally straight-faced, "Well, you have to remember I was only 32 when I got it."
ONLY THIRTY-TWO! Like that's some youthful number that'll explain away this ... this ... holy hell, I can't even come up with a good term for that thing. I simply stare. You know, that look that is totally blank, that look that can only be described as, "I have no response to that."
And I stood there thinking, This is what my life has become.
He goes to the bank. He returns. I said, "What did Justin think of your shirt?" (Bank guy). He said, "How'd you know he said something?"
Gee. I wonder.