“Your undershirts are getting a bit dingy,” my wife said.
“So what?” I asked. “They’re undershirts, for crissake. I wear them under my shirts. Nobody sees them.”
“I see them every time I do a wash and they’re really gray,” my wife said. “And for your information, people can see your undershirt collars when you’re wearing button-front sport shirts. Your collars are dingy gray.”
“Whatever,” I said. “I don’t need to spend the money on new undershirts. And nobody is going to be grossed out from a peekaboo view of dingy undershirt collars.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” my wife said, “so I bought you some new undershirts and I want you to see something.” She grabbed my hand and led me to the bedroom, where she had one of my old undershirts laid out next to one of the new ones she just bought.“Okay, I see what you mean,” I said, knowing that further resistance was futile.