As I get caught up at my desk today…as if that will ever happen…I get a notice that I am “tagged” in a status on Facebook. Looking for a fast and easy diversion, I immediately head over to check it out. I literally LOL, and honestly, I don’t LMAO at much. Especially out loud.
You ask: What is so funny? Well, for one, my friend Mike, who is obviously of the opposite sex, is asking for my tank top size. Actually, that’s about it. It simply tickled me. A million ideas ran through my head as to what people must be thinking.
If you are wondering my size…I would say medium.
If you happen to be asking why my friend Mike needs to know. Well, that’s actually NOT too much information.
Basically, I asked him to buy me a tank. Yep.
The story goes back a few months to the beginning of this god-awful winter in which I have been splitting my time between hot yoga and rushing to run on the treadmill at the gym. Both an attempt to warm my tootsies and avoid getting as big as Attila the Hun while I hibernate. During one of my jaunts, I procured a big comfy hooded sweatshirt from my husband’s side of the closet…it wasn’t lulu, Nike, or Under Armour.
I am pretty sure its hanes or something like that. Its a “cheapie” silkscreened with the name of his friend’s construction business, and I freaking love it.
I started living in it. I wore it to the gym. I tossed it on while writing. I pimped it up to basketball. There was something so nostalgic about wearing it. It took me back to a time in college when I exercised in shwag shirts…ones I got at date parties or sorority events, stole from boys’ rooms because they were worn in and cozy, or remnants of my busy life in high school.
Of course, no one adores a trendy lulu luon, breathable, reflective shirt complete with cuffins (sleeves with cuffs that turn into mittens…who was the genius who thought of that?), but this winter I returned to my days of being a shwag whore.
Like one of those people who runs events for the T-shirts. I was grabbing hand me-downs from my 13-year-old son who is about two inches shorter than me. I was rifling through my dear husband’s stash. I even brought out some oldies but goodies. If there was t-shirt for sale with a logo, I was buying, and I don’t mean those expensive ones from a hotel.
Like a hot bowl of soup on a cold day, the lush goodness of worn-in cotton against my skin was a reminder of a time when I was so vibrant, young, and threw caution to the wind. All from a stupid sweatshirt or t-shirt that probably cost 2.99 wholesale. I know this…my dad was in the promotions business, and he spent years telling me the shit I spent money on was a waste. He could get me a T-shirt just like that for $3.49…it just would have the name of a local bank or car dealer on it. Back then, I would argue and say how stupid that was…I didn’t need to walk around promoting the Buddy Garrity’s of the world.
Perhaps, at the root of my throwback to the past with my promotional T’s, I was keeping a piece of my dad alive, and I liked that, too. A lot.
So, I got to thinking as I was joking with the owner of the construction company (remember, from the original hoodie?) about how I was giving him lots of free PR! I was strutting into the local gym a couple of times per week wearing his shwag with pride…but, I started to dream about the summer months when I would be throwing on my sports bra and tank (that’s it!!) to head to yoga or outside through our city streets for a run.
I determined he needed TANKS! That’s right…cool, funky girlie, and of course, soft tanks.
…and, I didn’t stop there. I determined that I NEEDED a tank from all the local businesses I know and love. Which brings me full circle to Mike, who by the way makes the BEST homemade hummus EVER in addition to yoga-ing with the best of us. I told him we need tanks, too. He has the best T’s around which simply say “hummus anyone?”
I guess pretty soon, I will be sporting a tank.
So, I think at the end of the day so much about blogging, reviewing, writing online is about brands and scouting cool brands, receiving samples or getting paid to write reviews for the big guy, and I love all that stuff, too. In my heart, though, I’m a small biz lady. Its in my blood. I got it from my dad, and rather than write about the wicking ability of a shirt, why not throw on a T with the name of local business, run through the streets or the spinning studio or whatever floats your boat, and spread the word?
All tanks, sweatshirts, and ratty t-shirts welcome.