I’m turning into an old man.
This past weekend, my wife and I were out making returns and doing some shopping. We stopped by a dress store (“It’s 40% off,” my wife exclaimed, “we’d be silly not to take a look!”) so Kerry could take a look.
She went to try on some clothes and I did what all men do when their ladies are trying on apparel: Fidget and look awkward.
As I was sitting there, I noticed a young woman go into one of the dressing rooms next to my wife. She went in with a few things and emerged every now and again to hail an unseen boyfriend who was sitting (I assume fidgeting and looking awkward as well) around the corner.
I heard him say a few unintelligible words until finally, after multiple attempts by this young woman (presumably his girlfriend) to get his attention, he lumbered around the corner.
What I saw next, I was not quite prepared for. This guy, maybe 19 years old, was wearing a T-shirt that said the following, “F.B.I.: Female Body Inspector”. Get it? “FBI” – like the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but instead his shirt just switched around what the letters meant. Switched to “Female Body Inspector”. Isn’t that just so clever? Forget clever, it was the epitome of good taste!
I was appalled. I mean, a deep disgust for this incredibly offensive means of self-expression. I found myself thinking:
1.) What in God’s green earth would make a person who chose to wear that T-shirt attract anyone else on the planet, much less someone of the opposite sex?
2.) Where are that guy’s parents?
3.) Where are those girl’s parents and why aren’t they protecting her from a meathead like that?
It was all I could do to stop myself from sneering at this guy and wanting to practice some of my new kickboxing moves on his slightly-tilted, mesh trucker hat-adorned head. But I didn’t. I just uttered a prayer that sounded something like, “Father, bless this young woman with vision and open her eyes to see that she is worth more than a guy who wears a T-shirt like that. And Lord, if you could, let that shirt get mysteriously shrunk in the dryer. Or let it go to the place that all the missing socks in the world go to. Amen.”
If we ever have a daughter, she gets to date when she turns 35. And I get to inspect the wardrobe of her possible suitor. And he cannot own a single mesh trucker hat. And neither can his dad ever have owned a mesh trucker hat. Ever.