A crisp, white Oxford shirt is one of the great pleasures of being a man. No other fabric is so sturdy yet so comfortable. No other shirt is worn so successfully untucked with jeans or beneath a jacket and tie. No man’s closet is complete without a white Oxford.
I was long overdue for a new one. I turned to the J. C. Penney Company to supply it. It arrived via post with this cheerful tag inside the collar, promising many years of carefree wear.
Except that within seconds of donning my new, freshly laundered shirt, that tag chewed and dug into the back of my neck. Was that tag made of titanium alloy? Impregnated with shards of glass? Edged in tiny barbed wire? I ripped that shirt right off. This would not stand!
For I am a man who knows how to use tools.
Forbearance. Persistence. Patience. These are marks of a mature man. Removing this tag revealed the limits of their development in me. That tag was fused so tightly to the shirt, God Himself might have sewn it on with His mighty hand. If God was involved, I certainly did not want Him to hear the four-letter words forming at my lips. I dug deep and kept my cool.
In time, I prevailed. The offending tag cast aside, I slipped my arms into the sleeves and shrugged the top of the shirt onto my shoulders. Ahh! Free from chafing!
Memo to the J. C. Penney Company: Skip the tag next time, eh?
