If you love all things 80s, you’ll understand my husband. He’s a Han Solo, Van Halen, Better off Dead, Quiet Riot, Sure Thing, Muppets, Duran Duran, pegged pants and rolled shirt sleeve, Miami Vice kind of guy. Through our 13 years of marriage I’ve managed to move many of his favorite artifacts to the garage, but one terror remained.
It lived in our closet. It used to be navy blue, then it was lazy blue. It was a polo shirt with a totally 80s collar and cut that haunted me.
This 80s husband thought it was just fine. Dressy, actually. He wore it to work. He wore it to dinner. He wore it anywhere. Once he even tried to wear it to a wedding with a sport coat.
Eventually, when I saw it in the laundry pile, I would toss it back to the dirty basket. I’ll wash that next week. Maybe. I hoped he would forget about, but it still remained in his pitching rotation. And finally, as if in desperation, it jumped out of the dryer and into my arms on a funky kind of day.
Next, the scissors called to me. Taunting me actually. And suddenly there were two nickel-sized round holes in the shirt. Where, you ask? Oh, as best as I could estimate, they were exactly where his nipples should be. Oops.
And then I calmly shook out the wrinkles, hung it on a hanger in the closet and waited for this all-star to come to the top of the rotation again.
It only took about 3 days (told you it was a favorite). The left hole was in the correct nipple location. The right hole showed more chest hair than nipple.
The look on his face was shock. Then fury. Then awe. And then the chuckle came. The chuckle that says, “You got me, but you better watch out.”
To know this 80s husband is to love him, except for THIS shirt.