Everyone likes true confessions, particularly when they make them feel good about themselves. I mean, who doesn’t like it when they see that someone else’s struggles or obsessions match their own? Nobody, right?
I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. How to tell all of you about my… issue. But there doesn’t appear to be any way to get there other than directly. So here goes…
I think I might have a problem.
This is my collection. Just the t-shirts, mind you. I ordered one of the new Thanksgiving shirts this week, and when I tried to put it away in my t-shirt drawer (actually, two large, full drawers) it didn’t fit. I simply couldn’t get the danged thing closed without rolling up at least a couple of shirts and dropping them out of the back.
So I pulled everything out, laid them on the bed in the guest room, and tried to pick a few to retire.
Alas, I couldn’t. That’s when I realized I have a strange, Mad Gringo addiction.
There are 44 shirts here. And these are just the ones I currently wear. There were a few older ones of a different style (with a tail just a little too short so that when I lifted my arms over my head I was flashing some belly-flesh. Ugh.) that are put away. A few more have been worn so many times they are now car wash rags.
And then there’s that problem with my expanding and contracting waistline. Yep, a few of my “skinny” tees are also stored in case I finally get around to losing that extra 30 pounds.
In addition to the story I’ve previously spun concerning my conversion to Gringo-ism, perhaps this provides a better understanding of why I was only too eager to take on the Mad Gringo mantel.