The Orange Shirt

When I met my husband he was wearing outdated acid wash jeans, ripped tennis sneakers (We were at a bar. He had no intention of playing a match.) and a black trench coat. What was I thinking? Hell yes! I want to spend the rest of my life with the only guy in here that looks homeless. (This was before therapy.) If it wasn’t for me Joan Rivers would have his head. I admit that once, after a heated argument, I allowed him to go in public looking like a clown. I refused to pick out his clothes for a meeting. (Yes, it’s that bad.) He came downstairs wearing a pair of tattered jeans, a turtleneck under a plaid shirt and a suit coat. Way too many layers. Way too many patterns. He looked like he should be the dad in a 1980’s movie. “How do I look,” he asked. With a big smirk on my face I whispered, “Just great.” He should have known better. I laughed the entire time he was gone. His fashion sense has improved a bit over the years. It’s probably because I have purchased most of clothing. I did not, however, buy the orange shirt. What is the orange shirt? It was a gift from my mother-in-law. It is something one would wear if one played on a softball team. My husband does not. It hugs his man curves and goes with nothing. The chest looks like the fuzzy picture you get on a tube television when the antenna is broken . (Google it if you’re too young to know what that is) It also has bright orange sleeves. My husband is drawn to this shirt like a Kardashian to a penis. I have tried to hide it. He develops some sort of super hero power and tracks it down. Yet, he can’t find the garbage can to throw out empty toilet paper rolls. I am not sure if my mother-in-law bought it because the shirt was on clearance or to piss me off. Either way it is awful. See for yourself:

 

 

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