I am not exactly a fashion icon. I’ve made some terribly dreadful choices when it comes to clothing myself. People, please let me help you. I’ve done dumb things, so you don’t have to.
Exhibit A: the romper. In 1984, I not only wore a pink terry cloth romper, I was photographed in this outfit. Nice, huh? I have no idea why I’m wearing a blanket as a pashmina. You can’t see it in this particular photo, but I was also wearing socks and jelly shoes. There is absolutely nothing about this photo any person who cares about her appearance should try to recreate.
The problem with the romper is that it never fits quite right. Maybe it’s just my body is proportioned oddly, but there was just always slightly less fabric than their ought to be. This leads to some highly personal interactions with the shorts. Fine, the romper is a wedgy looking to happen.
Also, to get the desired look, if you could call this look desirable, the shorts must be quite short. The specs on this one claim the inseam is 1.75 inches long. I’m calling that wishful measuring. I didn’t see a single one for sale with more than a half-inch inseam.
Unfortunately, my warning came too late for one young woman spotted in fashion hell. She walked past my friend and I, her stride clearly impeded by the intimate relationship she was engaged in with her romper. My friend looked a little shell-shocked. She stammered, “I think I just saw her cervix.”
People, please, we don’t all want to be OBGyns. Just say no to the romper.