Over the years I’ve picked up my share of scars. I have no desire to get rid of them; many of them are far better than any government-mandated warning labels. To name a few lessons: don’t attempt to catch falling knives, attempting to ride a dirt bike through a barbed wire fence is strongly contraindicated, and always—always—use a pusher stick when working with a table-mounted router.

These are treasured memories, earned through supreme acts of stubborn stupidity. They’re written on me in skin and bone, never to be repeated as long as I have those scars to remind me.

I have others, but do you realize that among men the rips and tears in our clothing also carry a story? In fact, in many cases our clothing is better than a diary. Ladies, when you finally get so disgusted with the rags your male counterpart insists on wearing that you demand he throw them away, it’s like demanding he destroy his diary. Those holes and stains are history, written in cotton and denim.

I was reminded of this when my wife was saying goodbye to the dog we had been fostering. She asked me to bring some treats for a photo op with the new owner. No problem—I was dressed in one of my favorite shirts. Well, long ago it was a dress shirt; now it’s ripped and torn in several places, and makes me look like a hermit. I had the distinct impression my wife would have preferred something with a few less holes.

It’s not that I’m cheap, although I’ll admit there’s some truth to that. It’s that my well-worn shirts are far more effective safety reminders than any bright red warning label. Take the shirt that caught fire while I was being too aggressive with a grinder. My arm was fine, but every time I slip that shirt on I feel the heat again, and I’m reminded of how bad that could have gone and the importance of protective gear.

Or my shirt with a ½-inch rip on the cuff. That rip is a brutal reminder to wait for the power saw to stop spinning before bringing flesh anywhere near the blade. No blood that time, but the lesson burned itself into the fabric.

My favorite flannel has a big hole in the pocket. That hole screams at me: never leave dog treats in your pockets. Every once in a while something drops out of it, but the hole has saved half my wardrobe from being chomped on.

Not important you say? How about a better example? During my first year in college, when I was still trying to decide between Chemistry and Electronics, I became fascinated with pyrotechnics. This was before the Internet; information came from the local library and those shady ads in the back of Popular Mechanics: 20 pyrotechnic recipes for a dollar.

There are firm rules for testing mixtures: no metal containers, keep your distance, observe carefully. When my 20 recipes arrived and I realized I had the ingredients for a smoke mixture, I ignored every one of those rules. After my ears stopped ringing, I found a piece of shrapnel had ripped through my shirt and buried itself in my pocket.

I stitched the tear closed and wore that shirt for years, a daily reminder of why I gave up pyrotechnics—and why I finally chose Electronics as my major.

Like my scars, these shirts are warning labels written in pain, fire, steel, and foolishness. They’re louder and sharper than anything a government regulation could ever print. When the day finally comes to throw one away, I always worry that I’ll forget the lesson stitched into that fabric—and the next warning may not leave me with just ruined clothing.

So tell me: do you really want me to throw away something that just might save my life?

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And of course, today’s song from Songer… Shirts as My Diaries

 

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