This morning I pull from my dresser drawer a summery sort of shirt that’s all wrinkly from being balled up in there for about a year. Really, I do fold clothes when they come out of the dryer, but they never seem to remain that way for long. I’m not sure what happens to them, but I assure you it’s not my fault.
Anyway, it’s one of the shirts I’m not sure if I really like or not. Seems like the trends nowadays are toward clothing that’s so hideous it’s fashionable. I’m not keen enough to tell the difference. I’ve got no time for this foolishness, anyway, but you know, I still want to look “good”. So I put on the shirt and walk into the kitchen where the kids are and hold out my arms and say, “Waddya think? I’m not sure about this shirt. Does it look ok?”
The kids are staring at me.
David: “What do you mean? You don’t like it?”
Me: “Well, I can’t decide if I do or not.”
David: “Well I think I would think it’s cool if I was you.”
Me: “Yeah? You think it looks good?”
David: “Yeah! It would make a really good undershirt.”
Me: “Oh. I guess I’ll go change.”
David is a very kind and gentle critic, but sometimes I just want the plain, non-sugar coated truth. It would at least save me some time.