Or: Grasping At The Straw That Broke The Camel’s Backpack
There are things I just don’t get.
It started with guys in Capri pants. I can’t get used to them. Having graduated high school in 1978, my sartorial aesthetic runs to extra long pants that cover the shoes. Capris are anathema in general, and on otherwise strapping young men they look silly to me. Fine. It’s none of my business. Chacun a son gout, and all that. File it under “kids today” and get it off my lawn.
Moving on, have you seen those cruel and nasty-looking types blasting yacht rock from modded Escalades? I know I tweeted about them, my apologies if I also already blogged about them. Since the enigma remains unresolved, it’s both pertinent and apposite. Besides, I saw another one today. That makes six. It wasn’t an Escalade, but the point holds.
We’ll ignore fabulously expensive designer kids’ clothes – after all, fashion trends last about as long as a grammar school growth spurt. I don’t get it, but a college education isn’t worth the money anymore either, and clothes have a social value of sorts. It’s not a value I value, but what the hell. Snobs have to recognize each other somehow. They might as well have a uniform.
Right about now I figure you’re all with me. Here’s where I’ll lose most of you. My final style gripe du jour is: racer-back tank tops. (Macho types ask someone who isn’t. It’s a good opener. You’re welcome.) Don’t even mention racer-back bras, my cup size is too far down the alphabet for that. Go ahead and joke. Har har. Very funny. I haven’t heard that one before, not. But I double-dog dare you to find a cute little workout shirt that will hide a bra without pinching your armpits.
Let’s ignore the broody boys in too-tight girl jeans, the ersatz Flashdance-style cropped sweatshirts and butt implants. This is plenty for one day.
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