Clothing tags. Annoying as hell, right? Imagine the excitement of discovering that your shirts now have a stamped "tag" instead of a real tag sticking out and attacking your neck. Awesome. Right?
Except there ARE tags, even on these stamped shirts. The tags are on the left side, stitched into the seam just above waist level. Yes, instead of tags annoying the hell out of your neckline, there are tags annoying the hell out of your rib cage.
Enough about
your shirts. Let's talk about
my shirts because my shirts have these side tags, and I am sick of it. I am tired of putting on a shirt and discovering what feels like spiders crawling along my bare skin. Most of the time this means tearing the shirt off over my head, throwing it onto a table, and grabbing scissors in a fit of rage. I usually have to try and control myself because if I attack the tag without my glasses, I'm liable to cut a hole into the shirt, and then I have another problem.
This solution, however, is not feasible if I notice the tag while at work. I cannot exactly rip off my shirt in the middle of teaching and cut off tags in an angry tirade. Well, I suppose I could but not if I want to continue working. I have been known, though, to take the scissors into the bathroom with me, turn my shirt up, and cut the tags off while I'm still in the clothing, risking serious injury and possibly giving myself unnecessary and impromptu stomach surgery.
The other day I am packing up to leave for a fun day in Maine. Suddenly, I notice a horrid pinching and itching in my left side. Damnation. I know what it is. I grab my glasses and scissors before I even look. I pull off my top (it's okay -- I have a sports bra on and the shades are pulled) and start sawing away at the tags.
It's annoying, it's unnecessary, and it's wasteful. Whatever that tag needs to say, just stamp it on the shirt like you do with the size and production information near the collar. That's what I think about my shirts, anyway. What you do with your shirt tags is entirely up to you. Just don't send me a hand-me-down with the tags still attached to the inside of the clothing or I'll know there's something sensory-related wrong with you. (Not me. Nope. I'm not obsessed. Not at all. Hand me some scissors.)
