I’m sitting at home in a sweater that is uncomfortably short. It’s not like a crop-top or anything, but it just barely reaches the top of my pants. Why? Doesn’t it know that I’m trying to hide my love handles, not display them to the world? So, to offset the shortness of my sweater, I have put a tank top on underneath. The tank top is so long that, if left to its own devices, it would cover my entire bum and the top part of my thighs. What? Why is it so long? That’s unnecessary. I also fear that other people own the same tank top as me and wear it to bars with sheer tights on underneath, calling it a dress. It’s not a dress, people, please cover up your bum.
I also feel this way about the length of shirt sleeves. I have never, for instance, owned a jacket that covered my wrists. But, on another note, I have owned long-sleeved shirts that went past my fingertips and beyond. And I have long arms. On a normal-sized person, they could probably have used their excess sleeve as a scarf. Well, maybe not, because I feel like that would be debilitating and also a little dangerous.
There really is no point to this, except to complain about the fact that my shirts aren’t a uniform length. I’m not really sure what I’m hoping to achieve here. Maybe I will grab the attention of some fashion mogul, who will then set out to make all shirts a perfect length in my honour. This seems unlikely, but I choose to dream about it anyway.