I’m With Stupid

My husband went back to work this week after two weeks off, and to be honest, I oscillated between looking forward to getting back to regular routine and dreading the kids’ emotional fallout from getting back into our regular routine. This week has been fine, anticlimactically enough, and so yesterday we went to an amusement park with a good friend and her daughters. We were standing in line, and I noticed the twentysomething guy behind us wearing a t-shirt proclaiming “Vagitarian”.

Ew. Also? Unlikely. I’m fairly certain that someone advertising himself as a Vagitarian is more likely to be living in his parents’ basement playing Wii and using his mother’s back copies of Glamour magazine instead of purchasing pornography than he is to actually have been ever involved in an intimate relationship with a woman. I’m just speculating here, but that seems the most likely conclusion. I mean, I cannot imagine any self-respecting woman seeing a guy in a Vagitarian shirt and thinking that she would like a piece of that action, yes please, and can you keep that shirt on for the duration? Seriously. I once saw a guy wearing a shirt that read “Yes, it IS that big!” Uh huh. Sure it is.

Of course, I am writing this while wearing a shirt that says “Harmony, Peace, Serenity”, so I’m not sure what that says about me as a person.

T-shirts with statements are strange things. On the one hand, I find them somewhat amusing when I see them in a store. When I see them actually being worn, I have the same feeling that I have when I see personalized license plates – somewhat LAME. Or worse. I saw a little onesie that said “All Mommy wanted was a back rub”, which is slightly amusing, I guess, but if I actually saw it being worn by an infant, I would be absolutely appalled.

No one is quite immune to the lure of the t-shirt, though. Recently my husband and I were in Banff for the night and immediately following a meal in which I was channelling my inner Carrie Bradshaw by drinking one too many Cosmopolitans we stopped in one of those tacky tourist shops. Right in front of me was a shirt that said “Too pretty for math”. Squee! I wanted that shirt right away and had I had two too many Cosmopolitans, instead of one, I probably would have purchased it on the spot, but as it was, I still was somewhat capable of rational thought: a) the population at large does not know me, so the irony of the statement would be unappreciated, and b) a woman in her mid-thirties with permanent forehead creases, grey roots, and varicose veins wearing such a shirt is pathetic at best.

So perhaps I should follow my own “Harmony, Peace, Serenity” t-shirt and give the “Vagitarian” the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was channelling his inner Frank the Tank when his t-shirt was purchased. Perhaps.