Okay, it looks kind of neat on movies or TV.
A little more dangerous.
Perhaps you remember the story (stories) of Superman in which mild mannered Clark Kent tears his shirt off and becomes the wondrous Man of Steel?
It always looked so—effortless. And tidy.
Well, I am a witness to shirt ripping and it is anything but.
Maybe I should explain . . .
Husby had a favourite shirt that was getting rather threadbare.
And needing to be retired.
Now, in the home of my parents, the retiring of a shirt was almost a ceremony.
Buttons snipped off and neatly stored.
Collar stays fished out; ditto.
Anything operational cannibalized for possible future use.
Then the remaining scraps relegated to the rag bag.
All while soft music was being played and/or a choir hummed quietly in the background.
Okay, I made up the part about the music, but the rest is true.
Now, fast forward to my house. And Husby’s threadbare shirt.
“That shirt needs to be thrown out,” I said.
“I love this shirt!”
“I can see right through it.”
Now many of you may think that is a good thing.
And it would be. Except that the places I could see through were things like: underarms. Front button plackets.
I’m sorry, but there is little that is sexy about underarms. Or front button plackets.
Thinking the conversation was over and agreed to, I started to leave the room, heading for my snips and the button box.
And that is when Husby hunched forward, tearing the shirt up the back, then grabbed the front and shredded it apart.
Buttons shot everywhere at the speed of sound, one of them narrowly missing me.
For a moment, the two of us looked at each other as the sound of bouncing buttons died away.
“Or we could do it like that,” I said.
Now I don’t know about you, but whenever I saw Superman do the same thing, no one mentioned flying buttons.
I think our hyper vigilant protective agencies should be informed.
Insurance rates are gonna rise.