That Shirt Thing
The other morning I was having a delightful get-together with Mr. Bud Elliott, whose name adorns this blogsite. We were sitting under the umbrellas outside Starbucks at Fig Garden Village in Fresno on a warm morning that held every promise of morphing into another typically hot summer day in the Valley.
Bud and I hadn’t seen each other since before I got my latest medical “gift” — the pacemaker that keeps my heart beating oh-so-regularly. Naturally, being old guys, we talked about what old guys talk about when they get together — whether they’re at Starbucks, at a ballgame or at a gas station. Health. You see, when you get to be our age, health is not only AN issue — it’s THE issue. Bud and I have had our share of such issues since we walked out of our respective newsrooms years ago, so we have plenty to hash out when we share a Starbucks.
Of course, we also gabbed about other things old journalists talk about. Just how bad does Norah look on CBS? Man, does ABC have great correspondents. How about what’s happened at the local TV stations where we used to work? And, of course, old journalists just have to talk about how the country’s political system has turned to garbage.
We ended our time together when Mrs. Elliott — properly known as Peggy — came by after shopping at Fig Garden. Peggy told us she had seen Mrs. Hart — Sharon — doing the same thing, a few doors down. They had shared stories about Bud and me, and of course we had no interest in finding out how bad those stories had been.
Then Bud and Peggy left, and I strolled across the parking lot and down the way to the Patio Cafe, where Sharon already had procured a table underneath the outdoor canopy. And the first thing she said was: “Do you know your shirt is inside-out?” Well, well. It turns out — my yellow pullover with the Wailea insignia — which Amy had given me last Christmas after she came back from Maui — was, indeed, inside out.
Was I embarrassed? Truth to tell, only a bit. After all, we were at a corner table, so fellow diners could not see my plight. And this was not the first time this had happened. That first time — years ago — now, THAT was embarrassing. I had spent that Friday morning (yes, I remember the exact morning) working on our recently purchased home in Paso Robles. Sharon was still employed in Fresno and was not scheduled to get to Paso until late that afternoon. So I decided to take a free tour at a winery alongside Highway 46 — the one that touted its “underground caves.”
I had to change clothes — after all, I wanted to make a good impression — and hastily donned another pullover. Then I drove to the winery — had a sample or two of their offerings in their nicely appointed waiting room — and started out with a group of other tourists downstairs, to the caves. We passed a mirror, and I happened to glance at it. I saw, to my horror, that, yes, my pullover was inside-out. Fortunately, there was a bathroom just off to the left — so I hustled inside. No one else was there — and I quickly stripped off my shirt and made things right.
That was about eight years ago.
Well, back to the Patio Cafe on this summer day in Fresno. We ordered our lunch — it was quite good — then headed to our car in the parking lot. Once inside, I took off my shirt and turned it right-side up. Or outside-in. You know what I mean. Then — after a quick stop at a nearby Target — we headed home.
Sharon said my latest mishap was just another sign that, yes, I’m getting old. Well, I really needed to know if Bud had noticed my plight when I was sitting next to him and had, out of kindness, declined to tell me. I texted, and he quickly responded “no,” adding: “Just keep hanging out with this old codger” if I didn’t want further embarrassment, in the event I did that shirt “trick” again. But I wasn’t done. I asked him to ask Peggy if SHE had noticed I was in sartorial disarray when she had come back from shopping. The answer: “Yes, but she thought it was a fashion statement.” Bless you, Peggy.
No, I still don’t know how I could have put that shirt on the wrong way. Was it really a sign of aging? And that got me to thinking: What OTHER possible signs of getting older are there? Well, from personal experience, let me tell you (and, yes, feel free to nod your agreement along the way). I am widely known for “losing” my cellphone inside our house. Seems that when I come in from almost anywhere else, I absent-mindedly lay that phone down — and cannot find it, minutes later. Of course, there’s an easy “fix” for that. Sharon simply dials my number, and when it rings, problem solved.
But you can’t do that with glasses. Cataract surgery years ago did away with my need for full-time glasses, but I still have to use them to read. Well, you can’t read if you can’t find them, can you? And, darn it, those glasses don’t have a number I can dial that will make them ring. About a month ago, I was somewhat frantically searching for my reading glasses once again. Looked in all the usual places, and some that were unusual (why, for example, would I have put my glasses under the bed?) Things eventually worked out, again thanks to Sharon. She came by and quickly found them — on top of my head.
There are other “subtle” signs that we might be aging — and I’ve experienced them all. Walking into a room — and not remembering why (the exception — the bathroom. Trust me, I still know why I walk into that one.) Starting to look up a topic on the Internet that had just intrigued me — and by the time I get to my iPhone or laptop to make the search — I’ve forgotten what I’m supposed to be looking for. Or — and I wonder if this has ever happened to YOU — you’re having a conversation with your ever-loving wife — you think of something absolutely brilliant and ground-breaking that will solidify whatever stance you’re taking on that particular topic — and your ever-loving wife speaks up just before you do.
Then — when she’s done making HER point — and I hasten to add that it was undoubtedly an outstanding addition to our collective knowledge base — you’ve forgotten that positively insightful point YOU were about to make. Notice I never said this has happened to ME — I’m asking about YOU.
Well, that’s it. I thought it might make your day to hear about mine. Maybe I was wrong. In any case, I’m quite certain I had more to write about — but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was. At least my shirt’s on the right way. No fashion statement for me tonight.