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A few things I did recently while entirely sober:

1. Buy Mortadella thinking it was cheese, when it was clearly listed under the "Specialty Meats" at the grocery store
2. Smash my head against the refrigerator entirely by accident
3. Wear shorts to the gym

All these things could be explained a little easier if I had had a small bit of very cheap the finest caliber wine in me but alas, I have no excuse. Especially for #3. I have not worn shorts since the last time I bought a pair during the summer after 10th grade in St. Louis when Abbie and I anxiously examined our burgeoning waistlines expanding with gooey butter cake and gallons of smoothies from the student center at Wash. U. We went to Target to buy shorts so that we could exercise. The shorts I bought were from the 4th of July blow-out sale. My shorts have a star on them, and has USA proudly printed in red, white, and blue underneath in some glitter crap.

I wore the shorts during that summer once to play tennis. I gained over 10 pounds.

There are few things in the world that belong less together than Adrianna and shorts. Pickles and ice cream is one of them, and me in skinny jeans is another. We just don't fit together, metaphorically and physically. I could go into why we don't, why the ONLY ACCEPTABLE PARTS OF MY BODY ARE MY HANDS, but alas, this isn't a therapy session.

What also didn't fit recently was Looptopia in Chicago. Ala White Night in Paris, Chicago decided it would try to have a "dusk til' dawn" deal, and pretty much failed. Not because it wasn't a good idea, A for effort, but simply because the people and the place are different. What started as a good idea ended in a messy cabal of pushy, frat-like drunken people vying to get into buildings or content with unaffectedly bellowing in the streets. In Paris I think mayhem would consist of well-aimed crepes and berets being shot around, but here it was just drink. And lots of people.

Some things are better kept on Europe. If something doesn't work out, they can just go with the excuse of "Well, we've got thousands of successful years of history behind us, what do YOU have Chicago?" And while Sears Tower and Trump Tower, along with Henry Hobson Richarson, Frank Lloyd Writght, and Louis Henry Sullivan architecture is unbeatable, I'm afraid we don't have Swiss chocolate or REAAAAAAAAAAAAALLY good mozzarella cheese.

(I sound like such a tool right now. Let's see how you'll feel after what you see what I like to wear when I get the chance.)

What else belongs to another world, consequently, are these:



These, ladies and gentlemen, are the infamous "islandwear" pants. Pants I felt entirely comfortable walking around in among hippies, girls whose hair was all shave except for three long, thin tails on various parts of their skull, and who were indiscernable from men when lounging topless on beaches. If I wore this around Chicago, I would either start a major trend, or would not be allowed on public transportation.

These pants are great.

Here they are undone. As you can see, the idea is that you put them on, then fold and tie them over. A one-size-fits-all deal, leaving plenty of room to eat tons and to stick a small child into the pouch on your tummy if you're a marsupial, and then cover him up.

These pants, while wonderful, loose, comfortable, and hide absolutely all flaws you might have on your lower half on account of looking like a large potato sack, do not go with several things.



With high-heels? Formal islandwear outfit? I'm afraid not.



Maybe rainboots? Perhaps if I'm planning on leading some sort of a revolution.

No, these pants belong to a different time and place. With an outrageous tan and flipflops, and where people don't know your name.

Nevertheless, who would still be my friend if I wore these around campus?