Summer vacation. It’s so close you can almost smell the tanning lotion.
After scraping up the pennies I found in the COM fountain, I realized I had enough money to plan a tour to Europe. (There were a few nickels in there, too.)
I was thrilled. Ecstatic, even. I was going to be able to spend a month exploring the exciting destinations of Paris, London, Austria, Switzerland, Iowa, Amsterdam, Venice and Ireland with my best friend. I couldn’t contain my excitement for a second longer. So, I called my mother. The first thing out of her mouth was: “Well, what are you going to wear?”
Good Lord! After thinking of important things like getting passports, plane tickets and shots to combat scary diseases and learning 100 ways to say “Kiss me, baby” in German, I realized I have no summer wardrobe. Not at all.
But, instead of having a second to think of what cute summer dresses I could buy, my mother said those five dreaded words that make me wake up in the middle of the night covered in sweat: “You can buy some capris.”
Capris. I just don’t understand the fascination with some ugly calf-cutters. People, pick either short pants, or long pants, not anything in between. Hell, even boys that wear shorts down to their knees are still shorts. Pants that graze the ankle are called “high waters,” and unless you’re going to sail the seven seas with an eye-patched captain named Lonnie, you shouldn’t be allowed to wear them.
Who decided these pants would be a good idea? What shmuck organized the board meeting and advertising campaign?
“Ok, Bob, see, by accident, the blind seamstress added too much material to these khaki shorts.”
“But, Darrell, these will never sell! They’re not shorts. They’re not pants. They’re three-quarter length disgraces!”
“Bob, we can arrange for young, vibrant models to dance around to swing music and jazz!”
“Mmmmmm, young models.”
And so, the capri craze began. I laughed haughtily as my mother rambled off how “cute” they were. And after hanging up, I explained my disdain to a male friend of mine who scared me with another five words: “They look worse on guys.”
After coughing uncontrollably, I looked up at him in disbelief. Did I hear correctly? MEN wearing capris? MEN who aren’t gallivanting on a poop deck? I was completely dumbfounded. I had never heard of such a thing. Capris for males sound about as appetizing as Richard Simmons as a romantic lead in this summer’s blockbuster. I had to see this phenomenon for myself.
So yesterday at about 12:42 p.m., I ventured into the men’s section at Banana Republic. I grazed past the pink dress shirts, rummaged through the tan loafers, and searched for the motherload. And the motherload I did find.
I gasped as I came across the scream- inducing cotton blends known as “the capri.” Not because of the $60 price tag, but because the rack was half-empty. Half empty!
Fifty percent of those ankle- biters are being worn right now. Right now, a man is going into Store 24 to buy Cheez doodles and little children are laughing at him. He thinks it’s because of his Kajagoogoo muscle shirt, but we know better.
Guys, please bring a woman along to shop with you. Or a sibling. Or even someone off the street. Friends don’t let friends look like tools (unless there’s some kind of bet going on involving $50 and a violet fedora).
And to my fellow women: I thought the whole shrug thing was bad a few years ago. I am willing to overlook pashima shawls and platform sneakers. I will even shield my virgin eyes to the horrors of cropped jean jackets. But, I draw the line at capris: It’s just not kosher.
Don’t believe me? I consulted with Mindi (Don’t you just loathe names that aren’t supposed to end in “I”?) at ye olde Gap about the rise of the capri popularity. After realizing she’s supposed to take OFF the headset before talking candidly to me, she told me that she sees hundreds of pre-teen everyday crying out, “But, Mommy, I don’t WANT to wear floral denim flared capris!” (She also mentioned a few preteen boys saying that too, but mentioned it was a very “hush hush” incident.) So, of course, I had to ask why she had them on. Just then, her manager came over to her, and Mindi was forced to mouth, “SOS, SOS, kill me,” from the “corduroys jitterbug” section.
So, the moral of the story is simple. Capris = dorky = overpriced = gag-inducing = evil. But hey, at least they aren’t overall shorts. That’s just pure blasphemy.
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