The Spaghetti Shirt

As a wee little Wittyburg, I grew up as one of the most clumsy, awkward kids you’d have known. Not much has changed, as I’m still lacking grace, but I did outgrow one tradition: The Spaghetti Shirt.

We regularly had pasta for dinner, and my mom realized when I was probably 3 or 4 years old that I still hadn’t quite managed to figure out how to work a fork. With more pasta and sauce on my face and hands, plus the table, The Spaghetti Shirt was introduced.

Every time we ate pasta, Brother and I would don crummy old T-shirts to ensure our “nice” clothes were out of harm’s way. Mine was white, naturally, and it became so stained and disgusting over the years that it took on a life of its own. The marinara splotches formed an ink-blot test that would stump even the most beautiful mind.

I was out to lunch with co-workers recently, and I spilled down the front of my shirt — not something new for this crew to witness, mind you. Not even a bit surprised at my clumsiness, I sighed that I should have just worn The Spaghetti Shirt. It’s too bad mine was retired years ago; it’d have been a hit at Maggiano’s.

 Spaghetti BabyOh, baby … this kid could use some help.

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About Wittyburg

Sarcastic, sports-obsessed writer & FL native navigating SF.

6 responses to “The Spaghetti Shirt”

  1. Maggie May says :

    As usual, you bring back many memories! I hope you understand I had to go with the spaghetti shirt because you and your brother looked a little silly wearing bibs at age 4 and 7 respectively.

    • wittyburg says :

      Considering we both made it into adulthood in one piece, I don’t think anyone can doubt your parenting skillz! Now whatever happened to that leash?

  2. Stephanie says :

    Maybe it’s time to reinvent the spaghetti shirt — the spaghetti jumpsuit!

Trackbacks / Pingbacks

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