So earlier today I made a TV appearance in Los Angeles.
Because the City of Angels is an hour-long drive from my house, and because I like to be comfortable for hour-long drives, I dressed in basketball shorts and a T, and tossed a collared dress shirt and jeans in the trunk.
Upon arriving at the studio, I reached for my fancy shirt only to find a couple of chocolate splotches draped across the front. They were remnants from the garment’s last wear, or maybe the wear before the last wear. Whatever the case, it wouldn’t work on television.
So, I grabbed this …
It’s a brown waffle shirt I’ve owned for, oh, 15 years. It’s been worn to do work and worn to a parent-teacher conference. It’s been worn on long runs and it’s been worn in pickup basketball. I’ve worn it for cold-morning walks and I’ve worn it for coffee shop sessions. About a decade ago I was interviewed by the NFL Network for its Walter Payton Football Life, and I wore it on air …
The wife hates the brown waffle shirt, and I get it. She doesn’t like brown, she doesn’t like brown waffle shirts, she doesn’t like brown waffle shirts that smell of mildew and car trunk. But I … just … can’t … get … rid … of … it.
It’s my sidekick.
It’s my security blanket.
It sparks joy.
