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.