Well, spring is around the corner. I bet all you folks east of the Continental Divide are breathing a sigh of relief. Out here in Arizona, we’ve been blessed with spring-like weather the entire month of February. No sour grapes, please. Believe me when I say the shoe will be on the other foot come June.

The warm weather in the high 70’s and into the 80’s sent me to my closet to switch out the sweaters and sweatshirts for tees. A lot of the older ones found their way into the trash, or (if they were still fairly nice) a Goodwill box. But there were indeed still a few whose better days were many, many years ago, that I still can’t bear to part with.

You know the ones: Rock the Planet—YOLO—Don’t Worry, Be Happy—Shit Happens—NYFD XXL—Don’t Mess With Texas—Hard Rock Café (fill in the appropriate city). And then there are those with graphics for the message: Mickey Mouse—the Superman “S” Shield—the Union Jack—the Happy Face emoticon. I could go on for days.

Message tees make a statement. They voice our culture, our politics, and our passions. We buy them and wear them and grow so used to displaying our attitudes on our chests, we sometimes forget we’re transmitting messages to the world around us.

I don’t wear them much anymore, but 2 in particular that I dug out of my closet reminded me of stories worth telling.

Let me set the scene. Fade in: Interior – Borders Books (Ah, yes, remember?) Coffee Bar – Morning: Our heroine, me, has a meeting with our other heroine, Jean Steffens, (who has no lines in this script, but will play herself in the movie). I hand the barista, a 50-something balding man with an incredibly good-looking salt-and-pepper moustache, a five-dollar bill to pay for my grande half-caff skim latte. “Have a nice day,” I say, smiling.

He squints one eye and screws up his face. “Arrr,” sez he.

I know I have that clueless look on my face as I repeat, “Arrr?”

“Aye,” he reiterates as his glance lowers. “Arrr.”

I look down. Now I get it. “Oh, right. Aye, matey. Arrr.”

My tee bore that certain iconic skull and crossbones along with the philosophy, “A pirate’s life for me.”

Then there was the time back in the day when I was a purty young thang and thought I was too awesome for mere mortal man. A well-thought-of tekky company was installing a blow-out stereo in the snazzy new ’83 Caddy my husband had bought me. After several days it was ready to pick up. I couldn’t wait to pop in my Police, Thriller, and Flashdance cassettes (yes, it was that long ago). I stood talking to the owner of the company, who was nearly as excited as I was about the state of the art, custom installation. After a few minutes, I noticed he wasn’t looking directly at me while we were talking but kept looking down at my chest. Really? And yes, even if I say so myself, I was nicely stacked back then. But how tacky is that? And with a customer yet? Well, thank God I didn’t say anything to him. I would have embarrassed him and made a fool out of myself–because back home, I passed by a big mirror and noticed my tee announced my fave movie of the moment, Stephen King’s Christine. And guess, just guess where the bright and shiny headlights of the big red Plymouth Fury’s grill had unfortunately landed on my anatomy. Yep, no wonder the guy kept looking. High-beams no less.

The Evidence Suggests: While some may wear their hearts on their sleeves, others wear their minds on their chests.

Be well, and as one of my favorite tees suggests: Have a Nice Day.

Sally