It’s been a week you guys. A good week but a crazy week. And Because I’m exhausted and thought you might want to smile… here ya go. Sharing this one again. May we all survive these last few weeks of spring and school and all things craziness.
Before the bubonic plague, murder hornets, social distancing, and Covid-19, before our planet started to implode and everyone hated each other, and I not-so-secretly decided to move to Switzerland, I noticed a disturbing trend in our society. I think if we study this trend, we can probably trace it back to the cause of all of this chaos.
Raise your hand if you’re in my age bracket, and you noticed that the hems of our shirts are… shrinking?
I’d like to keep my age bracket general, but realize that I’m not young anymore and there’s no sense in hiding it. I’m not exactly old, either. Like, the other day Jamin and I took a photo and I frowned, and then asked him to take another because “I look forty.”
“You are forty,” he replied, dryly.
WRONG ANSWER, JAMIN. Because forty is the new thirty and I can at least pull off 35 since there are definitely 25 year olds out there who look older than me because genetics. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Also, I was forty in 2020 and I didn’t even get a chance to try and embrace that number, so DO OVER. Not really but also definitely. Yes, my thought process is exhausting. So is this year. YOU CAN’T SIT WITH US.
While I’m not exactly spry enough to shop at forever 21 anymore, I also never did, so there’s that. I think I was too old before it became a thing. I’m more of a Nordstrom girl now. The word Nordstrom sounds appropriately relative to my age, even though I shop at a little bit of everywhere so it’s a nice default. If you say Nordstrom with a British accent, it takes off the age factor and sounds more snobby than practical, so it works.
Excuse me fashion universe, but I’d like the bottoms of my shirts back.
I noticed the hems creeping north about a year ago. That means it probably happened in Paris at some fashion show three years before that. Right before the bubble wrap coats worn by very naked tall people, more very tall models flaunted their extreme underbewbs with super short crop tops and everyone applauded them and then someone with authority made forever 21’s order them. So then they lowered the hemlines ever so slightly and put them in stores everywhere, so as not to offend everyone living in the south.
That’s how they sneak them in, when you can get them past everyone in the south.
Personally in the fashion world, and seemingly overnight, I went from Britney Spears’ Jeans circa 2000, to a Puritan churning butter when it comes to clothes. Hand me my bonnet. It’s over.
This is not intentional. I’m not exactly tuned in to all things cool. But I’d like to think I keep a small finger on the pulse. There has to be a balance somewhere, right? Can I just pull a Steve Jobs and start wearing a black turtleneck with jeans and New Balance, every day? Because I think I may have an embolism over trying to figure out what actually looks good.
Aren’t bell bottoms/wide legs back? Is Steve Madden still alive or did he die in that Wolves of Wall Street movie? Did I see clogs the other day? Can we just bring back the 20’s and all things flapper, but the pajama version because flappers seem fussy to me and have weird old hollywood accents.
Let’s bring back the old Hollywood accents, ya see.
I noticed it in the extreme when the yoga studio I attend, started carrying crop tops. I even boldly tried one for 2.5 seconds, but that doesn’t end well in downward dog, or with the slightest amount of bloat so in retrospect I probably shouldn’t have eaten that hamburger or tried it in the first place because I LOVE MYSELF.
And that’s what started the entire 2020 apocalypse.
I blame myself for conjuring whatever it was from the underworld by participating for five whole minutes in this horrid trend. I think it actually caused a fissure in the matrix when enough of us participated in shorter shirt hemlines. Kind of like conjuring Bloody Mary in the bathroom mirror at an ill-fated slumber party after watching Labrinth in the fifth grade, and also I was never brave enough to do that so leave me alone, Sarah.
But there’s a big crack and it looks like that underworld in Stranger Things where something on the inside has a severe case of dandruff and so here come the daymons.
I’ll just say this: The world does not need more cheaply made clothes with creeping hemlines, because if extreme shiplap is the next paneled walls a-la the 70’s, then these new yoga ensembles are the old Jazzersize combos with permanent external wedgies.
All things in moderation, y’all.
Speaking of external wedgies, we now have them on the front, a-la our lady bits with JEANS because at least we’ve gotten the upper half of our pants back. Mom jeans + cropped tops = permanent frontal bottom half cleavage. If you’re twenty, you shouldn’t wear mom jeans until YOU HAVE TO. Kind of like dying your natural hair color grey on purpose.
Am I missing something?
My twelve and a half year old shot up over the summer. So I let her shop at American Eagle, because apparently that’s still a thing. It was my go-to in college and I’m fairly certain I’m not the same size anymore. But imagine my despair when her tiny frame fit perfectly into a medium shirt without showing her belly button because THATS WHAT THEY’RE MADE FOR.
Is it the 80’s? Is it the 90’s? Are Birkenstocks still in, because I still have those. Can we make up our minds? SOMEONEPLEASETELLMEWHATWE’REDOING.
Also, when did I become my mother? Not with the puritanical churning butter stuff, but with the rational fashion questions and not wanting to show my frontal lady bits at Publix whilst angry because they reorganized the entire store.
They’re totally play my jams now.
It’s time to close the demonic portal from whence 2020 came.
Let’s lower the hemlines.
I’d like the bottoms of my shirts back.