For some, it’s bumper sticker messages, for me, it’s T-shirts with wisdom. Bumper stickers are a pain if you change your mind—they’re sticky and hard to get off. Even worse, you might cause an accident by distracting another driver who should be stepping on his brakes—like the guy behind you. Then there are the bumper edicts that challenge my civility–communiqués that I’d likely slap on the back of my vehicle would have that effect on way too many peeps…
Okay, the truth is squirming out of me: The reason I changed from car stickers to T-shirts was that—back in the day, mid-nineties—I wore my convictions on my bumper. The back fender directive that converted me to T-shirts was: We’re Here, We’re Queer, Get Used To It—we barely made it out of Georgia alive.
But a T, that’s another thing. If you change your mind or happen to be driving through Georgia and get out to pee and fill your tank, you merely throw on a cover-up or change your shirt. It’s that easy.
The Internet is my temptress. Like my wife, it knows my weaknesses. It keeps tossing up beautifully colored Ts with blurbs that reflect my convictions, delighting me, causing me to drool and pull out my credit card. And, like most addicts, I feel guilty in the morning when the UPS truck shows up (yes, I overnight them) with a soft package and my name on it—especially if my wife is home.
I write this as my way of confession, standing up and admitting my addiction, exposing my dirty little secret, all in hopes it will bring some control to my life.
As I sit here, making my confession public, my heart starts to thump. I see the USP truck out the window, driving slowly…
Will it stop here?
Did you know, they now put messages on sweat pants? This could be my first pair arriving. I need to catch the driver before he can ring the doorbell and wake my wife. She needs her sleep.
(To read about who’s following in my footsteps, scroll down to: “The Sleepover.”)