Flannel Shirt Wars

 

 The other day I was on my way down to the den when my wife stopped me. She was in the laundry room holding one of my old flannel shirts. Apparently she had just washed and dried it, and was getting ready to put it into the laundry basket to bring upstairs when she had a change of heart.

 

"Do you want this shirt?" she asked. "Its old and the collar is frayed and there's a rip in it." 

 

I looked at the offending item for a few seconds, and decided it wasn't worth getting in to an argument about, although it was the only blue flannel plaid I had.  She didn't mention all the white paint I had somehow gotten on it, which would have boostered her complaint. I let her toss it in the waste basket and went in to the den. On my way out I glanced at the shirt again and decided to give it a closer exam. I didn't see any rip in it. Granted, the collar was frayed all the way around, and it didn't look nice, but I wasn't planning on wearing it to church or anything. It has served me well for a number of years, although for reasons unknown, it's gotten tighter in the chest and belly area. Nonetheless, for jobs like mowing the lawn, shoveling snow or fishing, it was perfect. Who would want to put on a dress shirt and then fillet a few salmon?  That's what flannel shirts were made for. They come in a variety of colors, they're soft cotton and feel good, and in a setting with manly men, they fit right in. About the only recommendation I would have to the manufacturers would be to install a bit of stretchy fabric so that as the shirt aged, it would still fit the wearer some years down the line.

 

This wasn't the first time Jan has ridiculed my clothing. For some reason, she thinks if there is a bit of wear on a pair of jeans or a touch of paint on a flannel shirt, it has been rendered useless and must inhabit a bin with old towels and pillowcases that are no good for anything but polishing the car. By that standard, half of my clothes would be rags, which she claims they look like anyway. What? Does she want me to wander around the neighborhood naked? Good Lord! No one wants to see that!

 

I'm sure I've seen homeless people on the street dressed better than me, but that's probably because Jan won't let me donate my clothes to the Salvation Army or Good Will.

 

You would think she would applaud me for getting the most out of my clothes, but she doesn't. I suppose I could bring up the argument that men in Africa would be glad to have my flannel shirts, but she would suggest I send them my whole closet. For the briefest of moments, I considered mentioning that some of her clothes aren't exactly flattering, but I thought better of it.

 

As I was contemplating writing this, I had a memory of being down in Florida visiting. My dad came in to the kitchen holding a short sleeved shirt that mom had apparently tossed out. It was basically the same reasoning that Jan had. In mom's opinion, it looked tatty, and she couldn't see why he wanted to keep it when he had a closetful of much nicer shirts. Women just don't understand. Old shirts take time to develop character. They get better with wear. They become like familiar friends; you can drink beer in them or spill a little mustard and no harm, no foul. If you need to wipe your hands on them after you've caught a fish, or put a worm on a hook, they don't complain.

Dad didn't argue, he just put his shirt back in the closet. I'm pretty sure he wasn't buried in it.

 

I've already let Jan know that I don't want her to waste money on a suit for me when my time comes. I'm going to be cremated anyway. I want to go to the undertakers in a pair of blue jeans and a flannel shirt, hopefully not a newer one. She can choose from a variety of plaid ones in the closet. There are several green ones I really like. Maybe she'll give the rest of them to some outdoorsman with impeccable tastes.