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Don’t Mess With The Rotation: A Cautionary Yarn

George Beckerman

    If you’re like me, the stack of tee shirts in your dresser drawer are in order of upcoming use. Every morning, I would wear the one from the top of the pile, throw it in the wash at the end of the day and place the freshly laundered tee on the bottom of the pile to await its future turn. Following morning, next up in the mound was selected. In my bureau, this rotation has been a drawer law for many years. A fairness doctrine in action.
    Yes, the tees occasionally do have petty jealousies amongst themselves, and the competition is sometimes fierce, especially between the burgundy and magenta. But in general, they are a pretty good-natured bunch. Of course, if someone outside their cotton count screws with the species, say a pair of boxers or briefs, hell is paid. But our human-tee relationship has always been amiable.
    Until a morning for which I was totally unprepared. On the a.m. in question, I was not in the mood for the forest green on top of the rotation. So I went down a few shirt levels until I found one that fit my current disposition. The grey heather. I would return to the top of the pile tomorrow and re-access the green. Not a big to-do, I thought. But I learned otherwise.
    I had effed with the established culture, screwed with their social fabric and these pimas were pissed. Some went awol from the dryer. The aforementioned forest green was found a block away, in a tree, huddled with a couple of my ankle socks that had been missing for months. And the purple crew was seen hysterically weeping at the bus station.
    The more I tried to reason with the remaining group, the less the situation settled down. Not even when I apologized and promised that things would return to normal. These damn drawer-dwellers abandoned en masse the sturdy wooden home I had magnanimously provided for them and called for a general strike.
    Problem was, I had an important business meeting that morning for which I was about to go uncomfortably tee-shirtless. So I rushed to a lululemon for a quick buy. But word had gotten around and the purchased tee refused to get into the bag. This upper undergarment void threw my entire presentation so far off that I lost the client and was put on probation by my boss. All of this because I decided to change the rotation. It was the pullover version of the Butterfly Effect.
    I had no choice but to seriously negotiate. The other side was represented by a tough tank top. The only one in my drawer. It was left over from a time when I was still searching for my identity as a man. An embarrassing time.
    The tees demanded better detergent, a bigger Zout budget, occasional ironing and improved living conditions, specifically on hangers in a closet. I held firm on no hangars until I was paid a midnight visit by the tank top who threatened not only to kick my ass, but to form a union with all of my apparel.
    I stood my ground. No way was I gonna let them organize. That’s when they kidnapped Tedster, our loyal Habanese terrier. I thought, “What are they gonna do, hurt a dog? That’s the ultimate sin.” In the fog of war, my wife was also captured. But I was prepared to go the distance.

    And then they came for my seven year old son. I thought about contacting the law but realized they would probably laugh me out of the precinct house. A painful decision would have to be made. So I swallowed hard and told them to keep all three. “Surrender” was not in my vocabulary.
    It was radio silence for about twelve hours. Baffled by why I hadn’t heard from the cotton count criminals, I suddenly realized that the bastards had stolen my cellphone. There was just so much a tech-addicted human could take. My spirit broken. Folding myself into the fetal position, I had no other option but to acquiesce to their demands.
    For weeks, the only way my family and canine would look at or speak to me was through a go-between. A pair of black and green plaid boxers. And every morning, when I went to my closet to pick out a hangered tee-shirt, I had to suffer their derisive comments. The tank top? It just glared, menacingly.
    The moral: Sometimes you won’t know when a relationship is hanging on by a thread, until it all unravels.

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