In Barcelona, in preparation for a trip, I decided it was time to upgrade my undershirts. I don’t know if I had any, but if I did they were probably old and stretched out. I went to “El Corte Inglés” a big chain department store whose name means “The English Cut”. It was on the pricier side, but I was anything but a savvy shopper and it was the only place that I knew for sure would have undershirts.
I found the appropriate section and leafed through the different packages of undershirts. The labels made no sense to me—instead of small, medium, or large, there were just numbers, like “38” and “46”. These most likely referred to centimeters, but even if I knew which measurement they represented, I had no idea how I measured in in that area, much less in centimeters. I was not yet in possession of the self-importance required to ask a Spanish person who worked at the store to help me. I do remember asking if I could try on the shirts, and being told that I could not. In the end I walked away with one undershirt that looked promising, and made my way through the madness of the city back to my apartment.
The undershirt didn’t fit well. Its little sleeves stuck out sideways in ridiculously jaunty fashion, and the shirt itself was unnecessarily long and rather tight.
I went back to El Corte Inglés with the shirt folded neatly in its torn package, and returned to the counter in the same area of the store, where I was met by an older gentleman in a blue suit. I told him I wished to return the shirt. He asked me why and I told him that the sleeves stuck out and I didn’t like it. He pointed to the label on the package: “Estilo Marinero” (Mariner style), and said this was the style of the shirt. I reiterated that I did not like the shirt, and so he took the shirt out of the package and began an examination.
He quickly turned the shirt inside out and looked closely at the armpit area, triumphantly (it seemed) pointing out a solitary hair—presumably from my disgusting American armpit. He made a little clucking noise with his tongue as he returned the shirt to its package and handed it back to me: “No lo podemos aceptar” (We can’t accept this).
Completely humiliated, I left the store with my sailor shirt and made my way, defeated, back to my apartment.
For some reason the shirt has stuck with me to this very day. After nearly five years, it is still in excellent condition, and its little sleeves still stick out in a ridiculous fashion. It’s like a strange pair of socks—with you for many years while other, more ordinary items are lost in the wash. I don’t wear the shirt often—usually only after all my other undershirts are dirty—and after catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror last week, I’ve decided I shan’t be wearing it ever again. The shirt will be cut and torn into painting rags, and I’ll never again tug annoyedly at the little sleeves or dig past it in my pile of undershirts searching for a better option.
I’m happy the shirt will be put to good use, and I know I’ll appreciate its sturdy weave when wiping my pallette knife clean. Mostly I’m glad to end a relationship in which I always wanted the shirt to be something it wasn’t. After all, the package clearly said “Estilo Marinero”.
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