I Recommend the Umber Jodhpurs

After a brief sabbatical of eight months or so (yes, it was a very nice nap) I have decided to take up the pen again, so to speak, in defense of the much maligned fashion trend of Guy Capris, or as my brother descriptively refers to them, “France Pants”. In an article dated April 1, 2015  (yeah-- what about it?) the NBA announced that the Utah Jazz, “once again at the forefront of NBA fashion”, will be wearing Three-Quarter Court Pants. You may have noticed that Three-Quarter Court Pants is a much more macho and manly name than “capris”, which are named for the Italian island of Capri and which is literally translated as “girly girl clothes” (not to be confused with the islands of Bikini, Bermuda, or Gaucho.) Predictably, the ensuing online chaos, clamor, and commotion among fans could be summarized as, "Yikes, what a stupid idea."

The question as to whether or not this article is simply a hoax is in my mind quite irrelevant. What is at stake here is of far greater significance than whether or not this is an April Fools Day joke: This is about accouterment equality. Think about it. For years, Guys have had two (2, II) entire appellations for the length of their britches—Pants or Shorts. In the meantime, Women have had, in no particular order: pants, crops, capris, gauchos, pedal pushers, clam diggers, skimmers, Bermudas, walking shorts, the superfluously and redundantly named short-shorts, the confusingly named hot pants, and Daisy Dukes—named for an icon of American red-necked flooziness. For decades Guys have been stuck with just two boring trouser lengths. I say we let them enjoy their France Pants, and quit giving them such grief about it.

Guys need to be able to have a little fun with life, too.  Think about their occasionally dull and deprived existence: They don’t even have a decent color name vocabulary. Once you get them past the 8-count Crayola pack, they got nothing.  Several years ago my husband and I participated in a game where participants answered questions to show how well they knew their spouse or other family members. I was asked the color of my toothbrush to see whether or not Ken remembered it correctly. I quickly replied, “Coral”.  The ensuing uproar among the male participants and audience members was frantic, frenzied, and furious! Certain that I had chosen a color word which they could no more verify than chartreuse, ecru, or tourmaline, it took several patient, persistent, and very muscular women to point out that “coral” cannot be fairly nor accurately substituted with either red, pink, scarlet, vermillion, strawberry, or salmon.

Perhaps if Guys were able to add a little fashion fun and frippery to their wardrobes, without all the chauvinistic and narrow-minded badinage and persiflage, we would be one happy step closer to understanding this sentence.