I turn my back towards him, lift my hair from off of my shoulders, and, as earnestly as possible, ask, "I feel like there might be a hole in the back of my shirt, do you see anything?"
And, then I giggle.
The subject of this much-loved joke is my dear, tattered and torn, forever-faithful sleep shirt. It is the soft, white (now dingy and yellowed) shirt that I've worn since elementary school, when I realized that my dad's oversized, knee-grazing shirts were considerably more comfortable then the scratchy and frilled little-girl nightgowns sold in the latest Sears catalog.
Last night, I slept in the rotten shirt for one last time, then, this morning, I threw it in the trash can. For sure, I could have used the shirt as a dust rag or cut it into strips to tie up my tomato plants - the kind of things that you do with worn-out, old t-shirts. However, in reality, I couldn't stand the thought of dusting with a long-time source of comfort, and I definitely couldn't find it in me to rip it to (further) shreds. So, without even the honor of a dignified burial, I quickly took a photo of my trusty tee and - sadly, hesitantly - tossed it into the trash.