Anyone who knows me knows I have a soft spot for anything that flies—with the notable exceptions of mosquitoes and those terrifyingly winged monkeys from The Wizard of Oz. I was convinced as a kid that one of those flying demons was going to swoop down in broad daylight and snatch me out of the backyard. To this day, I still can’t watch that movie without feeling a bit anxious.

That said, if it flies and doesn’t cackle or drink blood, I’m a fan. I’m particularly fond of fixed-wing aircraft (i.e., airplanes). I like helicopters, too, despite their apparent defiance of basic aerodynamic laws. But rockets? Rockets have always held a special place in my heart.

As a kid, I built and launched many model rockets, all of them powered by what were marketed as “engines” but which were, in fact, firecrackers on steroids. Somehow, despite numerous close calls and at least one near miss involving my sister, I still own all ten of my fingers and both eyes.

Like most kids growing up in the golden age of space exploration, I saw astronauts as gods, encased in their white flights suits and bubble helmets. I’m old enough to remember all of the Apollo missions, back when going to the moon was something mankind actually aspired to. As a newspaper reporter, I once was assigned to cover the landing of the Space Shuttle Columbia at White Sands Missile Base in New Mexico. Watching it touch down was like watching Zeus himself hurtling in from Olympus on a flaming chariot.

These days, I get my rocket fix a little closer to home. I live not far from Vandenberg Space Force Base, where launches of SpaceX rockets lugging communications satellites into low earth orbit have become frequent enough that I’ve started to recognize the size of the rockets merely by the severity of the window-rattling sonic booms they produce. (Pro tip: the Falcon 9 sounds like God kicking a dumpster full of anvils.)

Naturally, my enthusiasm for spaceflight led me to acquire a few SpaceX t-shirts on eBay. They’re comfortable, reasonably priced, and they have rockets on them. What more could I ask for? I wear them proudly—at least, I used to.

This is where things get complicated.

As most people know, SpaceX is owned by Elon Musk, a man who is either a visionary genius, a chaos agent, or possibly just a very rich guy with too much time on his hands. No matter how you view him, however, one thing is clear: the man definitely is polarizing. And in my household, let’s just say he’s not exactly winning any popularity contests.

My wife—who is as rational and tolerant as she is politically aware–has gently but firmly informed me that wearing SpaceX merch in public is, in her opinion, “not a great look.” She hasn’t banned the shirts outright, mind you. That would imply I have no autonomy, which I do. In theory. But she has made her displeasure known through a highly effective combination of sighs and subtle-but-devastating comments like, “Are you sure you want to wear that to dinner with the neighbors?”

So now, my beloved SpaceX t-shirts are mostly relegated to in-home use, joining the ranks of other rarely worn garments, including my vast collection of Denver Broncos team jerseys, and the “Parrot Head” tank top I bought years ago at a Jimmy Buffett concert.

Even inside the house, wearing a SpaceX t-shirt will draw frowns of disappointment that read, “I can’t believe I married this man.” I try to explain that I’m not endorsing Elon Musk—I’m endorsing his rockets. The marvel of science. The miracle of controlled explosions. But nuance, apparently, does not fit comfortably on cotton-poly blend.

I wish everything wasn’t so political these days. Can’t a guy just wear a comfy shirt with a rocket on it without having to issue a disclaimer? I’m not aligning myself with any ideology—I just like things that go “whoosh” and defy gravity. That’s it. If the rocket also happens to be designed by a weirdo billionaire with 14 children, that’s, well, unfortunate, but it’s not really the rocket’s fault.

It’s hard being a rocket enthusiast in the era of outrage. I feel like I need to carry a little card in my wallet that says: “The opinions expressed by this t-shirt do not necessarily reflect those of the wearer. He just likes things that fly.”

Still, I wear them. Not to make a point or start an argument—just quietly, when she’s out of town or working late. There’s no rebellion in it. There’s something about putting on a shirt with a rocket on it makes me feel a little more like my younger self—the kid who thought (and still does) that astronauts are indeed the embodiment of The Right Stuff. My wife doesn’t love the association, and I respect that. Marriage, after all, is built on a thousand tiny negotiations and arrangements. She gives me room to indulge my quirks, and I try not to wear my quirks in public. But now and then, when the coast is clear and the house is quiet, I’ll put on one of my  SpaceX t-shirts, step outside, and look up—just in case something’s launching. In that moment, politics fade, and all that matters is the sky.