This post will probably not make me popular.
I don’t care, since some things just have to be said.
If you know me at all, then you know I am a “live and let live” kind of person. I try (really hard) not to pass judgment. Not just because the Bible tell us not to, but also because I personally don’t like having judgment passed on me.
But there are some things so offensive, so horrible - I can’t help myself.
For instance, my take on khaki.
I hate khaki. I really, really hate it.
I don’t just mean, “Oh, I don’t like khaki and never wear it,” I mean, you should never wear it, either. No one should ever wear it. It shouldn’t even exist.
Khaki is clearly something the other colors threw up.
I mean, just listen to the sound of "khaki." It sounds like something nasty got caught in your throat.
No one (and I mean NO ONE) looks good in khaki. You could put khaki on the most beautiful person in the world (current votes are on Angelina Jolie), and she would look like, well, me.
You could put khaki on the cutest, little angel-faced baby. Within seconds, you’ve got your very own Quasimodo lurching across the floor.
I have stood proudly unwavering on my opinion of khaki.
I curse the feeble-headed morons who anointed khaki the holy color of business casual. A few years ago, I was supposed to staff a booth for our company, and my boss wanted us to wear matching polo shirts and khaki pants.
“I will quit before I ever purposely wear khaki,” were my exact words to her. (She let me wear black.)
I didn’t just not join the military because of a complete lack of interest and schlubby physical condition - there was all that khaki to consider. No way could I have survived (the exertion or the explosion of crappy khaki).
I will say khaki seems perfectly appropriate on one entity – maggots. Maggots embody khaki sentimentality beautifully, and I think (as reasonable people) we should not try, on any level, to imitate maggots.
Moving on, next to my utter disdain of khaki, is my opinion of flip-flops.
I really despise flip-flops.
There is exactly one place where flip-flops are acceptable (besides the trash). If you are going into a communal showering facility with people of questionable hygiene, then (by all means) protect your feet.
Otherwise, um, no.
First of all, I’m still a relatively conservative Baptist girl at heart (I can hear those of you disagreeing based on my earlier use of the word “crappy” which is definitely not condoned in the Baptist circles.).
And, really, aren’t flip-flops essentially bikinis for your feet? In some circles, they are even called “thongs” (you don’t want to get me started on actual thongs).
I should clarify I also don’t think feet, as appendages, are necessarily beautiful and worthy of showing off. And all the cutesy, patterned, flowery, glittery, sea shelled flip-flops in the world aren’t going to change what is clearly not meant to be displayed.
There’s a reason God put ‘em at the end of our bodies. It wasn’t so we could draw special attention to the five-pronged hobbit limb that mutates grotesquely off our stumpy legs.
This brings us to the real reason for my post. I am in absolute disgust over a current fashion trend.
“Oh, Ann-Marie,” you scoff. “Surely, you know sleeves have gone the way of the horse and buggy, the corset, and the buttonhook!”
Yes, yes, I know. I have seen it with my own eyes. I have searched rack after rack of clothes with nary a sleeve in sight.
Never was this trend more in evidence than when Mom and I were hunting for bridesmaid dresses.
Mom and Gary got married in May, which (in Illinois, anyway) is not the height of summer. It should have been a cakewalk to find a dress with sleeves. Instead, we had to go all over town, search several stores, all just to find ONE design that featured (albeit very short) sleeves.
I started fuming then and there and haven’t stopped since.
Sleeveless is not a trend I can applaud.
So many people - the majority really - look hideous in sleeveless items; their saggy skin and fat flaps waving brazenly in the wind. I’m not making a fat joke (like I could). I’m talking about your average, every day, sleeveless garment wearer.
I have met exactly one person who looks amazing in sleeveless clothes.
Her name is Dominique Dawes, and she is an Olympic Gold Medal-winning gymnast. She wore a brown sleeveless dress and looked fantastic. Her arms were incredible and sculpted to perfection. Her arms were so beautiful; they should be bronzed and placed in a museum.
Dominique can confidently go sleeveless. The rest of humanity? Not so much.
Much of my chagrin exists in not knowing what, if anything, the sleeve has ever done to be discarded in such a manner!
I love sleeves! In fact, I love anything that covers my imperfections and highlights my… (well, forget what it highlights).
Think of the sleeve-related Americana sayings that will soon be shorn from our vocabulary!
“He wears his heart on his sleeve.”
“She’s got something up her sleeve.”
“Let’s roll up our sleeves, and get to work!”
Now, in order for someone to wear their heart on their “sleeve,” they’ll have to get a tattoo.
Sleeves have long been a thing of beauty to me.
My favorite is the sleeve that starts at the shoulder and billows gracefully down my arm and ends at the back of my hand. Long, flowing sleeves enable me to entertain the delusion that I have willow-thin and decidedly lovely arms.
Even my childhood heroine, Anne Shirley, desired “puffed sleeves.”
I also love 3/4 length sleeves. They say, “Hey, I’m willing to let my hair down and have a good time.” Without ever crossing the line into, “Hey, baby, what’s your sign?”
I’m not a huge fan of short sleeves, but they’re okay at the bare minimum.
Unlike cap or barely-there sleeves which I call “teaser” sleeves (and yes, that’s why). It’s like wearing a sheer robe over sexy lingerie. Why bother, you know?
I know my opinions are not popular, judging by the sheer volume of khaki clothes and gawdy, tacky flip-flops available in the stores. Not to mention, the pantheon that has been unofficially erected to sleeveless clothes at most major retailers.
Like Laura Ingalls had to forbid farewell to her sun bonnet, I, too, will have to say goodbye to sleeves. For now.
After all, I live in Illinois. Where we have a little thing called…winter.
*Begin evil laughter soundtrack*
Try going sleevless then. Just try it.
While most of this is said tongue-in-cheek, I’m totally not kidding about khaki. May it die a swift death, and be instantly forgotten.
“Khaki? What’s that?”
Ahh...the sound of things being right with the world.