THE SWEATSHIRT OFF MY BACK

Sweatshirts are hotly contested turf in my house.

I wouldn't say I'm obsessed with my sweatshirt collection -- certainly no more so than I am with my hairline (pause to check for fallen follicles) -- but I do like them a lot.

My favorites are heavy and gray and emblazoned with the logos of my favorite sports teams and colleges. I also have fancier sweatshirts that work well as evening attire when matched with a fresh pair of jeans and clean, white sneakers. Then there are my yardwork sweatshirts, some rattier than others, each no longer qualified to remain in my standard rotation.

When you live in the Midwest, a good sweatshirt can be critical to a man's wardrobe. They are great for bumming around in during the winter, they work well with a pair of shorts on cool, spring days and, of course, they are mandatory attire on Fall football weekends.

The problem is, my wife likes them too.

Shortly after we were married, I discovered one of her many "golden rules" with respect to clothes: What's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine.

Now, this is fine when it comes to borrowing a t-shirt from my endless supply, assuming ownership of a shirt that no longer fits or wearing my coat when we're out on an unexpectedly cool evening. But when it comes to my sweatshirts -- that's another thing altogether.

You see, she doesn't just wear them proudly, as I do. No, she has to stretch the cuffs out and roll them up, occasionally splitting the material at the seam. Then, she pulls the bottom of the sweatshirt down so that it covers as much of her southern territory as possible. Finally, while wearing one of my pride-and-joys, she often chews absentmindedly on the collar, leaving it frayed and, well, chewed on.

But worse than all these transgressions, when she's done with them they are returned smelling as if they were just used as a mop in the Bath & Body Works store in the mall. And no amount of washing seems to completely eradicate the odor.

Recently, I ordered a new sweatshirt from a catalogue circulated by my alma mater. Great colors, a cool version of the school logo, extra-thick cuffs -- everything a sweatshirt maven could want. It arrived in the mail three days before the weekend telecast of the "big game," which I planned to watch at a buddy's football party.

The morning of the game, I throw it on and immediately recognize the pungent smell of soap mixed with perfume. EGADS!

"Honey?" I call out.

"Yes?" she says, walking into our closet.

"Did you wear my new sweatshirt?"

"Oh, yeah. I threw it on yesterday before I ran to the market."

"But I'm getting together with the boys in an hour to watch the big game."

"So?"

"So -- it smells like you!"

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Not for a woman, but in case you haven't noticed...".

"Oh, big deal. You'll be the nicest smelling guy at the party, that's all."

"Right. Just what I was hoping to achieve."

So, now you see what I have to deal with.

As for my buddy's football party, it didn't go all that badly. I even got hit on once or twice.

(c) Marc Prey 2002