Well, it’s that bittersweet time again. Once a year I have to do it, and with time, it doesn’t get any easier.

Every Aug. 29, I have to take a block out of my day to think back, back to when times were simpler. When everything seemed to stand still, life just strolled by easily, kinda like putting back 14 cold Budweisers on a hot summer afternoon.

Sure, there have been signs that age is catching up for a while, getting older if you will. Everything’s a little more faded now, wrinkles a little deeper. It’s like cutting into the fabric of existence, which grows softer, smoother with each passing birthday.

When the obligatory hole in the armpit showed up recently, it became more apparent than ever: time is not on cotton’s side.

I wasn’t sure how many people understood the feelings I have for my favorite T-shirt, after all, how many people have had one around two decades and claim to know it’s exact date of purchase? Or at least that’s what I thought.  More on that in a bit.

“Choices” came to me on this date 20 years ago. Aug. 29, 1992 was a beautiful day, one filled with sex, drugs and rock and roll. And it was my 21st birthday. To bare full disclosure, I really only remember about two hours of the whole wonderfully sloppy mess and those included primarily just liquor and a few titties being flashed in the crowd.

[Editor’s Note: A full run-down of what went on that day in my life can be found in an earlier blog here, which also includes videos of the whole Pearl Jam concert from Lollapolooza II, some which may or may not contain what I then believed to be one awesome mullet].

Just so you know, I have not named it. Unlike a car or motorcycle, or some pet, it doesn’t have a nickname. It’s my “Choices” shirt, one that still makes me step back and think more today than when it first came to me. The front has a little girl, maybe about 4 years old,  playing on the floor, using her crayons and coloring what I’ve always assumed to be a horse even though you can’t tell. The back says:

9 out of 10 kids prefer crayons to guns

Let that sink in.

Even back then, it was a helluva statement, and I’d say it takes on a deeper meaning with each passing birthday.

We’ve been together 20 years. I’ve wore it, at one point or another, for all 17 CCMP gatherings (our guys’ poker weekend every summer). It’s been to Australia and England with me. Add in about 15 states where I wore it while out drinking on the road for one of my teams, although that slowed down toward the end of that journey. And there’s just going to Lowe’s on a random Tuesday.

When I started thinking about it being 20 years old today, I had to ask if anyone else had some old T-shirts still in their collection. I was really amazed at the responses. A couple people from work had 22-plus-year-old T-shirts, and a couple others had in the upper teens and early two decades old favorites. Amazingly, one friend from long ago — we lived on the same street in junior high — said he has had his T-ball T-shirt for 36 years. Another said she had one from college that was 31 years old. That’s incredible, not that she was in college that long ago (she doesn’t look it) but that a chick actually held onto a T-shirt that long. And, even better? It’s for a bar.

Mmmm, beer is good. Oh, and thanks to all who responded to my question on Twitter and Facebook.

And, assuming I’m alive in a decade, that’s where we’ll be, me and “Choices” together for 30-plus years. It’s not going anywhere — I’m debatable. It doesn’t get worn that often so I know it’ll hold up, and honestly, if it gets to the point where it can’t be worn, well, I’ll hope that by then they’ve come up with a way to cryogenically hold it between times I need it.

This will be the shirt that I’m cremated in, so it will be there until the end. Fittingly, I feel like it’ll still be going strong till then, much like the band, which I last saw in 2010. And which I’ll see again in about three weeks when it headlines the Midtown Music Festival here in Atlanta. I’ve thought about wearing it to a PJ concert, but I won’t. There are too many other 20-somethings — who were barely born (and plenty of younger kids who weren’t even born) when me and my “Choices” were made — who will be there wearing replica shirts, the damned imposters.

So I’ll wear a newer PJ shirt and I’ll buy another one that day. They won’t be the same, but maybe some day they’ll be worth randomly spending time writing nearly 900 words on a blog about their birthdays.