This gift (or curse?) began early.
As a kid, nothing touched my skin unless it was 100% cotton. Not cotton blends,
not “cotton-rich,” not “cotton-adjacent”, pure, honest, noble cotton, in its
uncorrupted form. Everything else felt like my body was waging war against the Industrial
Revolution.
School uniforms? Fine. I tolerated
them the same way we tolerate those relatives who only show up on holidays. But
outside of school, I had one set of clothes, my daily uniform. I wore it like a
cartoon character who didn’t know time existed. Seasons may change, but my
fashion rotation remains the same. I was loyal.
Now, in adulthood, that loyalty
continues. But the consequences have expanded. Growing a beard, for instance,
is a terrible idea. I wanted distinguished, rugged, a hint of “lumbersexual.”
Instead, I became Captain Caveman, itching at all hours. Wool blends? Forget
it. They’re my sworn enemy, although I adore the look of wool, its luxurious
glamour, the pure elegance of a well-made wool suit. But the romance ends fast.
Wool seduces me, then betrays me. It destroys me. I’ve learned my lesson: I
will not be asking Baa Baa Black Sheep for any wool. And yes, there is
an interesting backstory behind that nursery rhyme; historically, it was about
medieval taxes. Which somehow feels right. Wool has been taxing me my whole
life.
And polyester? Don’t get me
started. Polyester is my kryptonite. Most of my winter layers, my underlayers, are
loaded with it. That means every winter, I experience the unholy combination of
itching and perspiring simultaneously, like a human sauna with anxiety.
But the fun doesn’t stop with me.
I now have grandkids, and I adore them. But apparently, I’ve passed on the
tactile hypersensitivity baton to my grandson and buddy Cole, who is autistic
and has sensory needs that make tight fabrics and irritating materials a
straight-up no-go. Cole is a superhero with a fabric radar stronger than mine
ever was. And when he or Calli walks through the door, their sensitivity kicks
into overdrive. Clothing starts to come off like they’re running from a costume
made of poison ivy.
Nonna and I are trying to break
this habit. But sometimes, when these kids blast through our house, stripping
down, we feel like we’ve been cast as unintentional hosts in a bizarre
crossover of Ricardo Montalbán and MJ Neverland Ranch. Not a good optic. Not
the legacy I want carved into the family tree.
And then there’s my own “witching
hour.” This is not mystical. This is not magical. This is me, in the American
Midwest, scratching myself awake at 2:00 a.m. because my skin has declared
mutiny and launching into blog-writing mode. That’s midnight on the West Coast,
so while Californians are lighting sage and doing sound baths, I’m doing the
chicken dance in my bedroom trying to escape my sheets.
Speaking of sheets, do not bring
up bedding. Please. I’ve tried everything: bamboo (slippery), Egyptian cotton
(decent but inconsistent), fleece (infernal), flannel (too cozy, like sleeping
in a lumberjack’s beard), microfiber (icky), satin (dangerous slip hazard), and
quilts with “innovative textures” that feel like sleeping under a sensory
obstacle course. I swear there are gnomes living in my bed. Possibly the
Travelocity guy. He mocks me.
Sleep? Ha. My alarm clock screams
at me like a banshee by sunrise, and I slap the snooze button with the
desperation of a hostage negotiator. And true story: this snooze button
behavior is contagious. My former roommate, Steve Sterr, had never used
a snooze button in his entire life before living with me. The man treated the
snooze button the way most of us treated the # and * buttons on a rotary phone,
like mysterious portals we didn’t dare touch.
Then he lived with me. Now he’s ruined. He blames me for his morning ritual of hitting
the snooze button, as if it owes him money.
At some point, around 2 a.m.,
mid-scratch, I jokingly thought, “Maybe I’m autistic too?” It was a sarcastic
jab at the nonsense rhetoric floating around the internet, like the absurd
claim that Tylenol causes autism. RFK Jr. and his “Tylenol did it!” conspiracy
nonsense drives me insane. I’ve never been diagnosed with autism. My sensory
issues are just… mine. Cole’s are medically real, beautifully unique, and part
of what makes him who he is. But as for me? I was being sarcastic. That’s why I
said, “Screw the spectrum.”
Because sometimes a man wants to
sleep without feeling like he’s wrestling with a polyester demon.
So there you have it. My life, my skin, my fabrics, my grandkids, my witching
hour, my snooze-button corruption, and my ongoing war with polyester. And after
all the scratching, sweating, sheet-fighting, beard-molting, quilt-wrangling,
and accidental supernatural gnome encounters, I’ve come to one profound,
universal truth: I am not a man built for modern textiles.
The industry keeps inventing
“performance fabrics,” “moisture-wicking polymer blends,” and “heat-retention
thermal synthetics,” and I’m over here just trying not to combust from friction
spontaneously. I don’t need performance. What is this short, rotund guy with no
joints performing? A one-man Cirque du Itch?
So tonight, at 2:00 a.m., when my
skin wakes me up for our regularly scheduled programming and I’m blogging in
the dark with my bare feet hanging out the side of the bed for ventilation, I
will shout into the void: “Cotton, take the wheel!”
Because in a world full of
scratchy sweaters, polyester suits that turn me into a sauna, and grandkids
treating my living room like an airport strip search zone, cotton remains the only
thing standing between me and a full-blown sensory meltdown.
And if I ever meet the guy who
invented polyester? I’m slapping his snooze button. Hard!
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