Picture a small child, a child who thinks nothing of wiping his leaking nose all day long on the front of his shirt. This is a child who will smear his ketchup-stained face on another person's clothes without asking. This same child has eaten a cookie remnant from the floor of a public bathroom, ancient cheerios from under the couch cushion, and gummi bears in a 'lost' easter egg from last year's hunt.
How is it, then, that this same filthy child can be so delicate a flower that he must--simply MUST--immediately change his nightshirt because a microscopic drop of water has spilled on the front? "See, I'm wet," he complains, holding his shirt out from his chest for me to check. And then the new, clean, dry shirt is also offensive: he has noticed a slight discoloration on the sleeve. "I need to change my shirt."
"NO MORE SHIRTS!" the Laundry-Man announces to all. "The pile of your shirts is like a mountain!" When we are all old enough to wash our own clothes, he explains, then shirts will flow free.