Paranoia. Slight paranoia, but paranoia nonetheless.

I recently bought some new shirts. They were on sale and I needed them so I bought them. Simple. Take’em home take the tags off, iron, and wear to work. No problem, right? Wrong.

I was at work yesterday, proudly wearing one of my new shirts. A couple of people I was talking to would occasionally lose eye contact with me and glance down toward my shirt. Were they admiring my stylish choice of attire? Did I leave a price tag on it? Was there a hole, a missing button, a coffee stain? I went into the bathroom and checked it out. None of the above… just super cool Steve, dapperly dressed in his new clothes. Shake it off… no need to be paranoid.

Then I go home. My wife greets me with a hug, kiss and a “that’s a nice shirt on you”. Remaining paranoia removed, almost. We sit down to the supper table and I ask, “Is there something wrong with this shirt? Does it look funny, or is there something on it?” She says, “No, it looks fine. It really looks nice on you. … wait a minute… what’s that there?”

I look down, and both of my armpits are flaming orange. This nice tan coloured shirt has rings around both my pits that are glowing like summer sunset. What the f…? I don’t sweat that much. Even if I did, would the shirt turn orange? Do my pores emit Clorox bleach? I went upstairs and grabbed my deodorant and wiped some onto my sleeve. Lo and behold, as it dried, the shirt turned orange!

Nice shirt Steve. (giggle)