Bull Shirt

Back in the days of Arbutus Junior High School, Bobby (future Governor of Maryland) and Gary (sorry to say I lost contact with him) and I were pals. We sat together in chorus, and would make up ribald lyrics to songs. (Or maybe that was just Gary.) I remember that in Spanish there was a comic strip in a magazine that we read in class called Gregorio el Gordo...Gregory the Fat...and because of the similarity between "Gregorio" and Gary's last name, we began to call him Gordo, and eventually that became Gord  (He was tall and slim, if that makes it any better.) And our pièce de résistance...or perhaps I should say our plato fuerte (thanks, Google Translate)...was when one of us coined the term Toro Camisa. Bull shirt.

That was a big favorite amongst us, for sure. As in put to use multiple times every day.

And many years later...about thirty of them...I told my to be second wife about it...and she found it amusing enough that when she went to Spain for a visit, she bought me a red, short sleeved T-shirt with a bull on it. My very own toro camisa.

Well, I wore the hell out of that shirt. At some point I decided to make it into a muscle shirt and cut off the sleeves. And I continued to wear the hell out of it.

It lasted a lot longer than my second (also known as my final) marriage. And at one point it was a key part in me breaking up with the second to the last woman I dated. (Long story, not to be told here.)

But I looked at it the other day...the picture and the writing almost faded out of existence...the holes ripped in it by my cat, Jet...

...and I had to admit that it was time to put the old bull out to pasture.

I have a hard time letting go of things...especially when they are saturated with memories of love and loss...and junior high school Spanish class with my pals. 

But I'm at the age where I either have to start letting go of things or know that before too many more years have passed there will be a dumpster in my driveway, and that someone I love will be shoveling the detritus of my life into that dumpster and wondering, "Why in hell did he keep this?" And it will probably make him (or possibly her, but probably him) love me a little less. 

And I certainly don't want that.