You Certainly See A Lot More of People in the Summer, Don't You?

I was forced -- forced! -- to party with Norwegians last night.  It was a brilliant evening with overtones of sun-tanned blonde-ness and Sarah's hospitality and tongue-in-cheek "Minnesota Potluck", a menu which contained both that green bean casserole we're so taken with and a "jello salad".

Please enjoy this repost from the summer of 2010.  I will be at my desk, nursing a small hangover.


Welcome to summer, season of fleshly exposures and frightened, abused clothing.

Lady, what did those clothes ever do to you that you would be so cruel to them? That shirt – surely you caught it selling top-secret documents to the North Koreans, yes?

I think I see what you’re up to. The plan? To wear that shirt, despite its being several sizes too small, despite its pleading, overstressed seams, until it confesses. Good for you. Now is not the time to be lax with our national secrets. Now is not the time to mollycoddle our treasonous clothing. Obviously you have impressive proof against that shirt; and the way things are looking? Let’s just say that I wouldn’t want to be there when the poor thing finally explodes in a burst of exhausted threads.

Good for you for taking a hard line on whatever you believe that shirt did.

And the pants? Let us not speak of the pants. The "pants" - and if ever there was a piece of distressed, undersized pair of trousers requiring quotation marks, these is them - are an assault on the eyes. I fully support you in your home-grown efforts to disgrace them. You’re doing a good job, and I’ve nothing to add here.

But the sandals. Tell me about the sandals. They are too small for you; and they’ve always been too small, yes? Even from here, I can see your painted toes curling over the front of them, your cracked heels extending beyond the length of the sandal.

Come on. Tell me. Call it a hunch, but those are not your sandals, are they?

So while I suspect the shirt of a subversive-style shrinking, no doubt in a bid to escape being worn again, and it is obvious that the pants were never trustworthy, the sandals mystify me. Perhaps you borrowed them. Perhaps a friend has pressed them upon you, urging you to wear them, either as a punishment for the shoe itself or in an attempt to humiliate you.

Where did those sandals come from, and who are they working for?

Those sandals, in conjunction with the rest of your outfit – the tourniquet masquerading as your pants, the shirt that insists on rolling up to expose your fluffy, fluffy love handles – are clearly working for the opposition.

Those clothes – and their original owners – must be removed from the public and put away, perhaps forced into a corner so as to think about what they've done...

Kudos on your continuing efforts to bring wayward, rebellious clothing and their treasonous ways to the forefront.

I shall miss these moments with you once winter comes.