By Meghan Dryzga
Did I sleep through spring? Because I could've sworn just a week or two ago... It's fine, Nature Mom. Clearly you're testing my versatility and ability to readily adjust to your erratic moods. That, OR Mother Nature is pregnant or experiencing menopause... Flank the nation with your hot flash, Nature Mom; I can take it. (Let's see, we'll need one umbrella for her unexpected downpours of emotion and a cardigan for her occasional cold shoulder. Put those in the car, honey.)
You know who else can take Mother Nature's unadulterated heat? My ankles. Why? Because it's capri season. Well, it's shorts season. But if you're a career woman, traipsing into the office in your fave pair of high-thigh khakis isn't going to win you any "office appropriate" awards. So we all find a spectacular pair (pairs?) of staple capris and pretend they're as airy as your Friday Night Patio Bar Skirt. (I capitalized that. It seemed important.)
So here's the trouble with capris. If you're short and shopping the standard-fit rack, capris can look a lot like a mistake. Like, too short to be slacks, too long to be shorts, kind of mistake. A peddle-pushers kind of mistake. A "crooked smile that says your intuitively trendy neighbor is confused about your fashion intentions" kind of mistake. A "Honey - I'm not mad, I just need to know if you put my work pants in the dryer. They seem to have shrunk. Otherwise, this is an exceptionally good day for me, as I may have just fit into our 'tweenager's girl-size pants..." kind of mistake.
The solution? It's not found with a seamstress and a 2-inch hem. Nope, any pin-stuck woman relegated to the back of the dry cleaning shop inhaling questionably quease-inducing levels of cleaning fumes and wearing an apple cushion as a bracelet will not be trusted with my hems. My short sticks leave a very small margin for hem error that only my mother can manage.
Believe it or not, it's easier than that, certainly far more fun and unquestionably more versatile (take that, menopausal Nature Mom). Enter, "cantaloupe conundrum," the summer-struck peep-toe heels that hoist up my height and air out my calves like a floor-level fan in a pedicure parlor. The perfect combination of girlishness smoldered in summer and professionally pruned; tall enough to tip the hip-scale but not quite tip me over (let not my low center of gravity fool you; when it comes to balance, I'm like a baby deer... a land-legged seafarer).
So go on, Nature Mom. Let summer's heat seep through the office walls. My feet are dipped in cool cantaloupe that push my calves under my ca-breezy capris for summer sun to finally see.
