So this thing happened last year: T-man became obsessed with brands, with Under Armour and Nike running neck-and-neck for the lead.  I was confused; I’d thought only girls were freakishly intense about how they looked, so I was prepared for Bear to hit a fashionista stage.  Instead I was confronted by my third grade son who’d suddenly become preoccupied with his clothes and — wait for it — socks.

That’s right.  Socks.  I’m old so I must be missing the gene to understand this, but apparently Nike Elite socks are so awesomely incredible that they are worth fifteen dollars a pair.  FIFTEEN DOLLARS. What?!  Yeah, I’m not paying that.  Do you know what T-man’s frequently used gift cards for over the past year?  Yep…socks.  Nike Elite socks.  I have no words.

Anyway, grandmom scored major points last winter by bringing each of the kids an Under Armour shirt from the beach, and T-man took immediate possession of his.  Bear had to be more patient so we could exchange hers for a different size at the (be still my heart) Under Armour outlet that opened near us.

Now, I have specifically avoided this store since its opening because I vividly remember the one (and only) time we took the kids into their store and it took for-e-ver.  These kids who do not love to shop suddenly became captivated by every rack, every shelf, every item in the store until I finally shrieked (in that quiet, public mom voice that promises a real meltdown if they don’t listen) that we had to check out and leave or I-would-lose-my-mind.

So that probably explains why it’s three months later and we just now found our way to the local outlet to exchange the shirt.  But the kids had the day off from school and we were heading that direction for grocery shopping, so when Bear brought it up I didn’t have a good reason not to go.  So she grabbed the bag, T-man grabbed some spending money (“in case I see anything I want”), and off we went…

Fast forward to our time in the store which, relatively speaking, goes fairly well.  Bear’s sorting through shirts looking for one she loves in her size, the very nice employee has agreed to exchange the one I have, and T-man’s decided that he doesn’t see anything he likes.  But since the Nike outlet store is right across from us (OF COURSE IT IS) maybe we could stop in there before going for groceries? Sigh.

We all troop off toward the fitting room since we are going to be by-God-sure that Bear gets the right size because I am not coming back here any time soon.  T-man’s going to wait outside, and as I’m walking in with Bear I see him cock his head quizzically at something behind me.  I turn to close the door and see it’s a mannequin wearing underwear but manage to stifle the snicker bubbling up my throat.

When we come out of the fitting room, though, T-man points out the mannequin (very helpfully positioned so that the back of the thong is visible) to Bear and she exclaims, “Gross!”  T-man very matter-of-factly asks me why on earth anyone would want to wear underwear like that (amen, brother!), and I matter-of-factly answer that it helps with some clothing so you don’t show panty lines but that I can’t for the life of me imagine why anyone would want to exercise in a thong.  And he’s all, “Hmmm.  Well, it looks like it would chafe.” and heads off to the register.

Oh my word.