I largely regard clothing from a purely utilitarian point of view. Unlike my high school and college days, when I went out of my way to dress ostentatiously, all I really care about is its functional value. If a stranger mentions that they like my shirt or hat, I try to avoid reflexively thanking them. I simply say, “Yeah, me too.” If I know the person well enough, I will facetiously say, “Thanks; I made it personally.”
Compliments on anything not based on accomplishment strike me as absurd. If you can’t substitute “Nice work” or “Good job” for an intended compliment, it’s hollow. And it’s awkward to say, “I laud you for having enough money to own that car,” or “You were endowed with genes that have made you attractive, and you have done a good job of maintaining your beauty.”
Nonetheless, I thought it was cool that I randomly ended up with a High Times t-shirt. It also just so happened to feature the cover of an issue with a skateboarder impressively ollieing over a bunch of marijuana plants. This isn’t it, but you get the idea:
Since I find it boring and unchallenging to repeat the same joke more than a couple times, I had to ration my humorous responses to people’s comments.
“Yeah, I used to do a lot of, uh, skateboarding.” (Which is true–I just never got that good at it.)
“That’s the only reason I’m wearing the shirt. I thought about putting tape over the High Times title because it promotes illegal activities, but that seemed disrespectful. I did watch a Chong and Cheech movie once. Had to check myself into rehab the next day.”
As a messy person, I normally avoid white clothing. Yet it would seem apropos for me to eat, say, a bag of Doritos and then wipe my hands on this particular shirt. It also seems like I should wear it for a couple days, allowing its odor to acquire the pungency befitting the pothead I once was. Or at least until someone offers me a few puffs.