Galvin crop

I’m going to miss my salmon shirt.No, it did not have illustrations of salmon scattered upon it; rather, it was the pale orange shade of a nicely cooked filet.

It fit properly (always a plus), did not have any interior ridges that would aggravate my shoulders (even a bigger plus) and was sufficiently permeable for breezes to pass through when, say, it found itself being worn at the golf course.

That’s where it spent its final day, in fact, during a late-morning nine at Stewart Meadows as the temperature (and the scores) rose.

It had, however, served its purpose — a well-lived, well-worn life, such as it was. My salmon shirt had long ago frayed at the seams. Small divots had appeared in the chest, while a sinkhole grew wider beneath the label in the back.

My salmon shirt was not universally admired. The final time I dared wear it to work a couple of co-workers (who shall remain unidentified) gave me the Joan Rivers treatment and questioned my sartorial sanity — though, in the name of fairness, Alissa and Morgan are not experts on proper golf attire.

Truth be told, they were not alone in citing the sanity clause; for my clothing supervisor — no, not the cat — had offered in the kindest terms that perhaps it was time that my salmon shirt be sent to live out its days at a nice farm upstate for retired clothing.

I soon discovered that had been but a ruse, since as soon as I peeled it from my sweaty torso upon returning from Stewart Meadows, it was placed in a paper bag … which was then filled with the detritus from the bathroom wastebaskets and unceremoniously dumped in the garbage.

And that was that. Or so I (and, most likely, you) thought. Fore, as the prophets foretold in the Days of Yore, “When one trash lid closes on a salmon shirt, a clothes hanger sits abandoned in the closet.”

It loses something in the translation.

And so it came to pass that a shopping trip was undertaken to find a replacement, lest that clothes hanger develop an inferiority complex and/or be kept from playing in any of the clothes hanger games.

I was told by the financier of this venture — again … no, not the cat — that a restriction applied as to replacing the aforementioned retired shirt.

It could be any color of my choosing … as long as it wasn’t green.

Well, this seemed unfair. What, I wondered was wrong with a green shirt? Hasn’t she always said that a green shirt drew out the color of my eyes? Hadn’t we, in fact, met (and gotten ourselves hitched) while I was wearing a green shirt?

Mounting a defense, I went to the closet and brought forth a hanger that was still in use and asked, “What is wrong with this green shirt?”

Then I took out another green shirt — of which there were three, no more, no less.

That’s the problem, she said:

“Three shall be the number you shall count of green shirts, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four green shirts, you shall not have. Five is right out. Once the amount of green shirts number three, being the third number, is reached, any further green shirt would be naughty in my sight … and snuffed out.”

Oh.

Once in the store, the quest began for the proper replacement. No stripes, no plaids, no patterns. Interior seams were judged on potential scratchiness. Shirts with logos were rejected out of hand. Material was scrutinized for golf course permeability.

Finally, it was time to select a color. Green, apparently, was out. As were grey, blue and red — even though I owned but two of each.

A salmon-orange shade would not be chosen. Too soon.

Finally, I grasped a shirt that seemingly checked every box, including color-coordination with my vast array of golf pants.

It was the shade of a nice rosé, I thought, and would have been a natural pairing with my salmon shirt.

“It’s pink,” she said.

Wait … what?

“It’s a nice pink,” she said with encouragement. “We’ve seen plenty of golfers in pink shirts.”

This was true. I can rock a pink shirt … after all, I’ve seen “Barbie.”

The pink shirt now hangs in the closet, next to the two red ones, awaiting its first tee time.

I won’t, however, wear it to work — and risk running afoul of the sanity clause.