Genius popped into my office a few moments ago.
He had just noticed a shirt that has been hanging across the back of the short couch since last Sunday. That's the kind of housekeeper and laundress that I am. No need to put a shirt away if it's going to be worn within two weeks. Criminy! That's how you wear a path in your carpet. The shirt is knit, with a slight v-neck, in alternating dark purple and heather puple wide bands. Purple is our school color.
"What's that shirt laying on the back of the couch?"
"That's The Pony's new shirt."
"I like it."
"It came from Walmart. Go get one for yourself."
"But The Pony already has one."
"So? They come in different colors. Blue. Green."
"My friend has one just like it."
"What color is his?"
"Purple. Just like that."
"But his school colors are red and white."
"When he wore it, a girl told him he looked like Freddy Krueger."
"So now you don't want one."
"No. Because The Pony has one."
It's not like I'm going to decree that they both wear an identical shirt on the same day. Or take an awkward family photo and send it out as our Christmas card. They don't even attend school in the same building. Their schools are on opposite sides of town. Genius drives. The Pony rides with me. And Genius is long gone when The Pony gets off the bus at my school in the afternoon. As are all of the high school students who know Genius.
Do you follow me here? Genius doesn't want a shirt because his brother has one. Not because girls might think it makes him look like Freddy Krueger.
My little Pony. More repulsive than a serial killer with knife-blade fingers who kills you in your dreams.
There's no accounting for the wardrobe preferences of seventeen-year-old boys.