Monday, January 4, 2016

How my marriage almost ended over a shirt

I have a friend (A Facebook friend, really) who suggests that instead of coming up with New Year's Resolutions, we pick one word to focus on all year. I'm into this. I tried to do it last year, but I forgot  the word after a week. This year, I'm determined to stick with it. My word of the year is:


I know what you're thinking: "But Saaara, you seem incredibly pleasant and level-headed. According to these blog posts, you've mastered the art of calm. Have you been lying to us all this time?" To that, I say: lay off the crack, dear readers. I regularly write about what a moody stress-case I am. Which brings me to the real topic of this post... "The Shirt Apocalypse of 2015."

It was a couple days after Thanksgiving and the H-bomb was taking a pile of his shirts to the dry cleaners. I gave him one of my shirts to drop off as well. A few days later, the dry cleaning's hanging in our closet... BUT my shirt was nowhere to be found. Now, it wasn't just any shirt. It was a cute shirt. A shirt I'd only worn a few times. A shirt that had gotten at least FIVE compliments. A shirt that was no longer available on I'm not a fashionista by any stretch of the word. Rarely do I develop personal attachments to articles of clothing. But in the words of Japanese cleaning consultant Marie Kondo, this shirt "sparked joy."

So, I made a stop at the dry cleaner to check if they had the shirt. They didn't. Later that night, while watching TV (Fargo) and folding some laundry (what, I like clean clothes) I brought up the case of the missing shirt to the H-bomb. Did he remember dropping it off? He wasn't sure. And then I bitchily mumbled these fateful words...

"I can't believe you lost my shirt."

Awwww, shit. This comment somehow escalated the conversation into a HUGE fight. And looking back, I get why the H-bomb was pissed. How could I just assume he'd lost the shirt? It evolved into an argument about trust and housework and relying on each other and blah blah blah blah... IT'S JUST A (SUPER CUTE) SHIRT.  We went to sleep pissed off at each other and to this day, the H-bomb says a little piece of him died during that argument. He's joking, kind of. I pretended to be over it, but in truth, I lamented the loss of my shirt to several friends during multiple social occasions.

CUT TO four weeks later. I'm walking out of Anthropologie and there's a voicemail from my girl Karina at the dry cleaner (yeah, we're on a first name basis). She tells me they... found my shirt! Here's the kicker, it wasn't just my shirt that got left behind. There was like eight other articles of my husband's clothing that were still there too. I thanked Karina and told her it was very possible that Bry might divorce me after this debacle.

So... yes, I realize this is a very long post about a shirt, but there are two very important morals to this story. #1 It's best not to jump to conclusions, fly off the handle, or make your significant other feel like they can't do right by you. Remember: Keep CALM and stop fighting about stupid shit. #2 Always double check your dry cleaning before bringing it home.

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