A tee for those who've experienced the particular terror of a full psychological breakdown while surrounded by Limoges porcelain and people pretending not to notice. The kind of panic that starts during cocktail hour and doesn't resolve until you're alone in the car on the FDR Drive at 2 a.m., wondering if everyone could tell.
Wearing this is either a cry for help or a flex depending on your audience. Most people will assume it's the latter. You'll know the truth. So will your therapist, who bills you $350 an hour to listen to you describe the exact shade of beige the panic came in.
