I’m trying capris and nobody can stop me.

In pursuit of getting my life together, I have decided the biggest roadblock to feeling like a human being, rather than a walking napkin, is the state of my wardrobe. When I moved to Arkansas six years ago, my husband had just purchased a 1920s Craftsman kit house in downtown Springdale. I love this house. It still has its original floors, doors, windows, and, unfortunately, its microscopic closets. Never in my life have I been forced to share a single-rack closet with another human being. When I tell my husband this, he looks at me as if I’m an asshole and I ask him to think back to when he met me nearly 20 years ago and try to remember if I ever once repeated an outfit. This does nothing because he doesn’t remember and doesn’t care.

Anyway, my situation has forced me to be much more particular about the clothes I buy. No longer is money the biggest factor holding me back from the wardrobe of my dreams. It’s space and, now more than anything else, time. I write now in silence and in fear that at any minute the beast will rise from his slumber and command my full attention for the next five hours. Nevertheless, I am determined in my pursuit of sartorial dignity. So emboldened am I by this cause that I left my husband and infant at home for an hour today to visit a relic of days past: the mall. That’s right, I went to the mall today and accomplished next to nothing. I got a general idea of what size I’m wearing now that the dust has settled from my dictator’s destruction and wasted eight dollars on some cheap sunglasses from Forever 21. We’ll talk about me and my cheap sunglasses another day.

Now, I don’t know if this is how disillusionment with fashion in general happens for middle-aged women, but I have become pickier than ever not only because of my lack of closet space but also because I’m simultaneously bored by recurrent styles and overstimulated by social media. In a time where there is endless inspiration, I’m less compelled than ever to buy anything. For the first time in my adult life, I’m witnessing the return of styles I wore as an adult. It was one thing when the styles from the late 90s that I wore in high school came back around. I quickly asked my mom to dig out all my old baby tees and all her 501 jeans from the 90s she saved just for me. And even when the Y2K styles started popping up a few years back, though it was my least favorite fashion era, I was mesmerized watching the thrift hauls of Zoomers on social media and the way they styled the artifacts of my youth. It reminded me so much of the excitement I’d feel in 2005 during my treasure hunts to thrift stores, coming home with trash bags full of clothes from the 70s and 80s. I loved confusing the hell out of my mom and stressing her out by the way I was styling everything like a bag lady. It was amazing. But the novelty has worn off and, now, with all this talk about the revival of Indie Sleaze, it is a bit, dare I say, boring? That’s not to say I am repulsed by these styles that once fell out of fashion, but it’s just not the same as being acquainted with a style you’ve never explored before. Anyway, the point is that I’m basically dead inside, so I decided to shock my system by shopping for capri pants.

I get it. A lot of people hate them. They’re not flattering on everyone, blah blah blah… but don’t you dare tell me they’re ugly. If they’re good enough for Audrey Hepburn, they’re good enough for me. And I know this isn’t a cutting-edge item, but I spent the past year and a half in sweatpants, so I’m ready to try everything I missed out on last summer.

In my search, I found many styles from old-lady denim versions at Walmart and Amazon, to more current styles from H&M and Zara. I scoffed at what Nieman Marcus was charging.

Zara

I linked a few for good measure, although I’m certain nobody reading this wants them. I didn’t. If I was going to take the risk of feeling like a frumpy Peg Bundy, it wasn’t even worth the $10 H&M was asking for me to do so.

H&M $9.99

I decided to sacrifice one of the many pairs of leggings I had left from my time spent in pregnancy purgatory and slice the bottom off the legs so I could control the length.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought, but it didn’t knock my socks off either. I might wear them again once the blistering Southern heat sets in. Hopefully, I’ll be on to something equally ridiculous but more appropriate for day-to-day summer life in the inferno that is Northwest Arkansas.

I promise it won’t be sweatpants cut into shorts.

That’s a lie. It will be.

“You’re as judgy as a Manhattanite with a penthouse but you keep living in the sticks of the rural hills.”

~ Eva Avenue