I am sitting on my couch. Brown leather. Comfy. I have a Klondike Bar in my hand.

Two things are true. My tastebuds and stomach are about to be satisfied. I really like a good Klondike Bar. The second thing, and at the heart of this story, is that my T-shirt is about to have a stain on it. Chocolate, to be exact.

I wear a lot of T-shirts. Most of them have food stains on them.

I can’t explain this, not really. I’m positive that my chin does not have a hole in it. I’m pretty sure I am quite adept at handling a spoon and fork. My mouth does not leak.

Yet, inevitably, when I eat, tiny morsels of food end up on the front of my shirt.

I wish I had more manly stains. Stains that stand as a testimony to hard work. But my stains are not grease stains from working under a vehicle. They are not blood stains from cutting my hand in the shop. They are not paint or caulk stains from my latest remodel job.

No sir. My shirts bare the marks of man who eats, and who evidently eats like a slob.

If you were to ramble through my stacks of T-shirts and have them analyzed, you would find forensic evidence of my diet. Pizza sauce. Gravy. Creamed corn. Red plum jam. Ranch dressing. Blue cheese dressing. Peach juice. Oatmeal. Syrup. Runny eggs. Grape popsicles. Ice cream. Milk. Beef stew.

The list is endless.

I have two stacks of T-shirts in my closest. Stained and non-stained. The non-stained Ts are the ones I wear out in public, though if the stain is light enough, barely noticeable, I will wear it out on certain occasions. The stained Ts are the ones I wear around the house doing yard work or making sawdust out in the shop.

In certain seasons of the year, as in spring and fall, when the temperatures allow for it, I will wear a T-shirt under a dress shirt. Button-up or polo. In this particular case, stain versus no stain does not matter. Any T-shirt in my closet is free to go out in public. The outer shirt, actually visible to others, hides the pizza sauce on the belly of my T-shirt, and I’m okay with that.

I have tried very hard not to be messy when I eat. I sit up to the table. I lean out over my plate. I follow the lessons my mama taught me about not talking with food hanging out of my mouth.

The biggest culprit in my stained world is usually the meal eaten on the couch. A ballgame is on TV. Sometimes I’ll watch a movie while I eat. On the couch, I eat in a reclined position which creates the perfect geometric angle between chin and plate through which stray food particles may fall directly to the front of my shirt.

Sometimes I wear a paper towel bibb tucked into the neckline of my T-shirt to prevent the inevitable. Sometimes I take my chances. I am convinced that I can handle this. I’m a grown man, for crying out loud.

I was proud of myself a few weeks back. I ate my morning oatmeal on the couch. I kept the bowl close to my chin. I dipped my spoon expertly. I was clean.

After I put the dishes away, I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I leaned over the sink, scrubbed, swished, and rinsed. When I stood and looked at myself in the mirror, there it was. With my chin down, it was hidden from my sight. But in the mirror, it was plain as day that a glob of oatmeal had lodged itself against my upper chest.

I used a clean washcloth to remove the mess, but the stain remained. It was a brand-new T-shirt.

You might rightly conclude that I suck at washing clothes. Most stains should disappear in the wash. That’s what I would think. I’ve sprayed them. I’ve soaked them. I’ve used cold water. I’ve used hot water. But nothing works. My wardrobe is doomed by the food that dribbles from my mouth.

I actually think that stained shirts are a mystery of the male species. A woman stains a shirt and it either comes clean or it goes away. The women I know and have known do not wear stains.

After my mama went into the nursing home and Dad was left to himself at home, I noticed that his clothes began to show signs of his bachelorhood. Stained shirts. Stained pants. He didn’t seem to notice nor care. I became acutely aware of the fact that for over 60 years Mama kept him clean and presentable.

Marion has tried to teach me a few of the finer points of taking care of myself. But, alas, I am a poor student.

Truth be told, she has stained shirts, too. She keeps certain shirts for things like smoking meat, cutting grass, and painting. She is gonna get dirty one way or the other. She is not a pearls-and-heels kind of gal.

There have been times, after a long day, we have gone to Waffle House for supper in stained shirts because we were too tired to change and didn’t care.

I like this girl.

Here’s the thing. I cannot throw away a perfectly good T-shirt just because it has a gravy stain on the front. I will get every mile I can out of it. In the winter, it is covered with layers. In the summer, I wear it proudly. And when the next stain comes; not if, but when, it doesn’t hurt as badly. It’s just another token of proof that I’m alive and eating well.

After a while, my stack of stained Ts in my closet gets taller than the non-stained stack. I have two options. I can buy more T-shirts so as not to be completely embarrassed when I go out in public. T-shirts are both a weakness and an addiction.

The second option is to repurpose some portion of the stained ones. I’ll get a good pair of scissors and cut them up into shop rags. Currently, I have three large tubs full of shop rags.

Anyway, I’m on the couch with a Klondike Bar. I’m wearing one of my favorite long-sleeved Ts. It’s thick like thermal wear. Nice for cool evenings. Three buttons in front below the neckline. Light beige.

I peel back the foil cover. This is not just any Klondike, but a Heath Klondike. My favorite. The thought passes that I should get a napkin, but I ignore it.

Klondikes don’t have a stick. You have to hold them with your fingertips, which by thermal induction causes the ice cream to melt faster than one would like. I eat deliberately. I check the edges for potential drips.

When I finish, I check my shirt. I’m clean. Not even a belly stain. I crumple up the foil and stand. Then, I see it. A chocolate blob the size of a dime on my left sleeve.

Lord knows, I try. But I am a slob.