I have been shredding my clothes lately.
Last Friday, as I was bending down to get into my car, I heard a sound that I am surprised I never heard sooner. It was the unwelcomed, but unsurprising sound of my pants ripping directly down the middle of my backside.
At first, I handled it well. These pants and I had been through a lot together. These were the same pants that I bought from Mr. Mac (a.k.a. God's haberdashery) before my mission. I have had them for just over three years (and 60-75 lbs) and was ready for them to leave my side.
But then it got worse.
I drove home and moon-walked inside with a random jacket from the back of my car covering my behind. I walked in and laughed about the incident with my mom and my cousin. While we were laughing at my expense, I sheepishly raised my arm behind my head to scratch an itch (or itch a scratch if you're a redneck). My mom started staring at my elbow and told me there was a hole in my shirt.
By this point, I had had enough. My reaction was nothing short of "Hulk"-ish behavior. I bent my arm at the elbow and flexed. The hole on my elbow grew until I was able to rip my sleeve off from the elbow down.
For the sake of symmetry, I did the same thing to the other sleeve.
I then walked down the my brother's room and summoned the best Hulk Hogan impression I could muster. I grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled it apart, buttons and all.
I could tell it was going to be a good weekend.
The next day. I went shopping.