As you may remember, a few weeks ago, a pair of pants I never did anything to almost committed suicide at a show, presumably for the sole purpose of embarrassing me. I chalked it up to the pants being too old for my rock n' roll lifestyle.
But last night, a brand new shirt attacked me.
A few weeks ago, I bought two sparkly tank tops, specifically to wear at shows, now that it's getting hot - one in black, one in white. Here's the black one, worn successfully at our Junior's show in May:
Last night, I decided to bust out the white one. I had my white tank, my worn Levi's and my red boots. Sexy!
Except that by the time we had gotten to the club, I noticed a serious problem with the shirt. The sequins on the shirt were scratching the insides of my upper arms - as in leaving scratch marks on the insides of my biceps that had raised up and stung like hell.
My first thought was "Owwww!" My second thought was, "Are you kidding me? AGAIN?? Why do my clothes hate me?!"
Luckily, 6th Street is a tourist district, so there was a store down the street selling t-shirts. So, after we unloaded, I ran around the corner to find a new shirt to replace the razor tank. I found one I liked and was able to play the show without being bloodied, which is always something to strive for in a show. But by the time we got home, hours later, I still had evidence of the damage:
My victimized bicep - one of two.
It may not look like much in the photo, but trust me, it was unpleasant. I took the shirt back to the store today to return it, which was a whole stupid process worthy of its own post, but I'll sum it up by saying that it took four people, and I only got back $3.25. But at least the razor tank is now gone from my house, so I won't accidentally wear it again.
Maybe I need to just stick with t-shirts from now on. Maybe fashion is just too dangerous.
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